





J ^ - 


vf 




/ 




i^^^^^^H 


>^ 


■nra 


^ 


) V. 

f \ 


%A, U' 


> 


1 '• ) 


1 \ \ y ^/T^_^ 


w 




/ ^^-ii 



K^. 



k5:<a 




:zh..^:s^ 



THE 



IDLER: 



^^^ 



By 



SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D, 



** Dnplek libelli dofi est, quod risttm movet, 
Et quod prudenti vitam oonsilio monet." 

Ph.kdros. 



LONDON: 

PUBLISHED BY JONES U COMPANY, 
8, ACTON PLACE, KINGSLAND ROAD. 

1826. 



f^ 






0<3 HO J 



CONTENTS. 



No. 

1. 

2. 

3. 

4. 

5. 

6. 

7. 

8. 

9. 
10. 
11. 
12. 
13. 
14. 
15. 
16. 
17. 
18. 
19. 
20. 
21. 
22. 
23. 
24. 
25. 
26. 
27. 



29. 
30. 
31. 



S3. 
34. 
85. 
36. 
37. 
38. 
39. 
40. 
41. 
42. 
43. 
44. 
45. 



PACE 

Idler's character 1 

Invitation to correspondents ... 2 

Idler's reason for writing .... 3 

Charities and hospitals 4 

Proposal for a female army ... 5 

Lady's performance on horseback . 6 

Scheme for news-writers .... 7 

Plan of military discipli-Jd .... 8 

Progress of idleness 10 

Political credulity 11 

Discourses on the weather .... 12 

Marriages why advertised .... 13 

The imaginary housewife .... 14 

Robbery of time , 15 

Treacle's complaint of his wife . . 16 

Drugget's retirement 17 

Expedients of Idlers 18 

Di'ugget vindicated ...*.. 19 

Whirler's character 20 

Louisbourg's history 21 

Linger's history of listlessness ... 22 

Imprisonment of debtors .... 23 

Uncertainty of friendship . . . ; 24 

Man does not always think ... 25 

New actors on the theatre .... 26 

Betty Broom's history 27 

Power of habits 28 

Wedding day — Grocer's wife— Chair- 
man 29 

Betty Broom's history SO 

Corruption of news- writers ... SI 
Disguises of idleness — Sober's charac- 
ter 33 

Sleep • . . 34 

Journal of a fellow of a college . . 35 

Punch and conversation 36 

Auction hunter .~ . 37 

The terrific diction 38 

Iron and gold 39 

Debtors in prison 40 

The bracelet 42 

Art of advertising 43 

On the death of a friend 44 

Perdita's complaint of her father . . 45 

Monitions on the flight of time . . 46 

Use of memory 47 

Portraits defended 48 



No. f^Gt 

46. Molly Quick's complaint of her mis- 

tress 49 

47. Deborah Ginger's account of city wits 50 

48. The bustles of Idleness 61 

49. Marvel's journey 62 

60. Marvel paralleled 54 

51. Domestic greatness unattainable . . ib. 

52. Self-denial necessary 65 

53. Mischiefs of good company ... 66 

54. Mrs. Savecharges' complaint ... 58 

65. Author's mortifications 59 

66. Virtuosos whimsical 60 

57. Character of Sophron the prudent . 61 

58. Expectations of pleasure frustrated . 62 

59. Books fall into neglect 63 

60. Minim the critic 64 

61. Minim the critic . 65 

62. Ranger's account of the vanity of 

riches 66 

63. Progress of arts and language . . 68 

64. Ranger's complaint concluded . . ib, 

65. Fate of posthumous works ... 70 

66. Loss of ancient writings . . . . ib. 

67. Scholar's journal 71 

68. History of translations 73 

69. History of translations 74 

70. Hard words defended 75 

71. Dick Shifter's rural excursion . . 76 

72. Regulation of memory 77 

73. Tranquil's use of riches .... 78 

74. Memory rarely deficient .... 79 

75. Gelaleddin of Bassora 80 

76. False criticisms on painting ... 81 

77. Easy writing 82 

78. Steady, Snug, Staitle, Solid, and 

Misty 83 

79. Grand style of painting 85 

80. Ladies' journey to London .... 86 

81. Indian's speech to hif? countrj-men . 61 

82. The true idea of beauty 83 

83. Scruple, Wormwood, Stiu-dy, and 

Gentle , . . 69 

84. Biography, how best performed . . 90 
65. Books multiplied by useless compila- 
tions 91 

86. Miss Heartless's want of a lodging . 92 

87. Amazonian bravery revived ... 93 



CONTENTS. 



No. 



What hare ye done? 94 



89. Physical evil moral good 

90 Rhetorical action considered . . . 

91. SuflSciency of the English language . 

92. Nature of cunning 

93. Sam Softly's history 

94. Obstructions of learning .... 

95. lim Wainscot's son a fine gentleman 



100 
101 



No. FAOB. 

96. Hacho of Lapland 102 

97. Narratives of travellers considered . J 03 

98. Sophia Heedful 104 

99. Ortogrul of Basra 105 

100. The good sort of woman .... ib. 

101 Omar's plan of life 107 

102. Authors inattentive to themselves . 108 

103. Horror of the last 109 



The Authors of Nos. 9, 15, 43, 54, and 98, are imknown.— Nos. S3, 93, and 06, are b) 
Warton.— No. 67 by Lakgton.— Nos. 76, 79, and 82, by Rbtvolds. 



HISTORICAL AND BIOGRAPHICAL 



PREFACE. 



This work was written by Dr. Johnson for 
" The Universal Chronicle, or Weekly Gazette," 
projected in the year 1761, by Mr. J. Newberry, 
Bookseller. The preface to the Rambler con- 
tains an outline of the Life of the celebrated au- 
thor of these papers ; we shall therefore here 
only present our readers with a few observations 
on the style, &c. of Dr. Johnson, which he will 
not find so copiously described as we could wish 
in our preliminary observations on the Rambler. 

The Doctor is said to have been allowed a 
shai'e in the profits of this newspaper, for which 
he was to furnish a short essay on such subjects 
as might suit the taste of the times, and distin- 
guish this publication from its contemporaries. 
The first Essay appeared on Saturday, April 
15th, 1758, and continued to be published on the 
same day, weekly, imtil April 5th, 1760, when 
the Idler was concluded. 

The Rambler may be considered as Johnson's 
great work. It was the basis of that high re- 
putation which went on increasing to the end 
of his days. The circulation of those periodical 
essays was not, at first, equal to their merit. 
They had not, like the Spectators, the art of 
charming by variety ; and indeed how could it 
be expected ? The wits of Queen Anne*s reign 
sent their contributions to the Spectator ; and 
Johnson stood alone. A stage-coach, says Sir 
Richard Steele, must go forward on stated days. 



whether there are passengers or not. So it waa 
with the Rambler, every Tuesday and Satur- 
day, for two years. In this collection Johnson 
is the great moral teacher of his countrymen ; 
his essays form a body of ethics ; the observa- 
tions on life and manners are acute and instruc- 
tive ; and the papers, professedly critical, serve 
to promote the cause of literature. It must, 
however, be acknowledged, that a settled gloom 
hangs over the author's mind ; and all the essays, 
except eight or ten, coming from the same foun- 
tain head, no wonder that they have the raciness 
of the soil from which they sprung. Of this 
uniformity Johnson was sensible. He used to 
say, that if he had joined a friend or two, who 
would have been able to intermix papers of a 
sprightly turn, the collection would have been 
more miscellaneous, and, by consequence, more 
agreeable to the generality of readers. 

It is remarkable, that the pomp of diction, 
which has been objected to Johnson, was first 
assimied in the Rambler. His Dictionary was 
going on at the same time> and, in the course o 
that work, as he grew familiar with technica 
and scholastic words, he thought the bulk of his 
readers were equ£illy learned; or at least would 
admire the splendour and dignity of the style. 
And yet it is well known, that he praised in 
C owley the ease and imaffected structure of the 
sentences. Cowley may be placed at the head 



vi HISTORICAL AND 

of those who cultivated a clear and natural ! all the refined and delicate beauties of the Ro- 



style. Drj'den, Tillotson, and Sir William 
Temple, followed. Addison, Swift, and Pope, 
with more con*ectness, carried our language 
well nigh to perfection. Of Addison, Johnson 
was used to say, " He is the Raphael of Essay 
Writers. " How he differed so widely from such 
elegant models is a problem not to be solved, 
unless it be true that he took an early tincture 
from the vn-itew of the last century, particular- 
ly Sir Thomas Browne. Hence the peculiari- 
ties of his sty]e, new combinations, sentences of 
an unusual structure, and words derived from 
the learned languages. His own account of the 
matter is, " When common words were less 
pleasing to the ear, or less distinct in their sig- 
nification, I familiarized the terms of philoso- 
phy, by applying them to popular ideas." But 
he forgot the observation of Dryden : — " If too 
many foreign words are poured in upon us, it 
looks as if they were designed, not to assist the 
natives, but to conquer them." There is, it 
must be admitted, a swell of language, often out 
of all proportion to the sentiment ; but there is, 
in general, a fulness of mind, and the thought 
seems to expand with the sound of the words. 
Determined .to discard coUoquitd barbarisms 
and licentious idioms, he forgot the elegant 
simplicity that distinguishes the writings of 
Addison. He had what Locke calls a round- 
about view of his subject ; and, though he was 
never tainted, like many modern wits, with 
the ambition of shining in paradox, he maybe 
fairly called an Original Thinker. His read- 
ing was extensive. He treasured in his mind 
whatever was worthy of notice, but he added 
to it from his own meditation. He ccllected, 
jU£B reconderet, aucta^ue 2)romeret. Addison 
was not so profound a thinker. He was bom 
to write, converse, and live with ease ; and he 
foimd an early patron in Lord Somers. He 
depended, however, more upon a fine taste than 
the vigour of his mind. His Latin poetry 
chows, that he relished, with a just selection, 



man classics ; and when he cultivated his na- 
tive language, no wonder that he formed that 
graceful style, which has been so justly admir- 
ed ; simple, yet elegant ; adorned, yet never 
over-wrought ; rich in allusion, yet pure and 
perspicuous ; correct without labour, and, though 
sometimes deficient in strength, yet always mu- 
sical. His essays in general, are on the surface 
of life; if ever original, it was in pieces of hu- 
mom*. Sir Roger de Coverly, and the Tory 
Fox-hunter, need not to be mentioned. John- 
son had a fund of humour, but he did not know 
it, nor was he willing to descend to the famiL'ar 
idiom and the vai'iety of diction which that 
mode of composition required. The letter, in 
the Rambler, No. 12, from a young girl that 
wants a place, will illustrate this observation. 
Addison possessed an unclouded imagination, 
alive to the first objects of nature and of art. 
He reaches the sublime without any apparent 
effort. When he teUs us, " If we consider the 
fixed stars as so many oceans of flame, that are 
each of them attended with a different set of 
planets ; if we still discover new firmaments 
and new lights that are simk further in those 
mifathomable depths of eether, we are lost in a 
labyrinth of sims and worlds, and confo unded 
with the magnificence and immensity of na- 
ture;" the ease, with which this passage rises 
to unaffected grandeur, is the secret charm that 
captivates the reader. Johnson is always lofty ; 
he seems, to use Dryden's phrase, to be o'er in- 
formod with meaning, and his words do not ap- 
pear to himself adequate to his conception. He 
moves in state, and his periods are always har- 
monious. His Oriental Tales £ire in the true style 
of eastern magnificence, and yet none of them 
are so much admired as the Visions of Mirza. 
In matters of criticism, Johixson is never the 
echo of preceding writers. He thinks and de- 
cides for himself. If we except the Essays on 
the pleasures of imagination, Addison cannot 
be called a philosophical critic. His moral 



Essaj'sare boautifiil; but in that province no- 
thing can exceed the Rambler, though Johnson 
used to say, that the Essay on " The Burthens of 
Mankind" (in the Spectator, No. 558) was the 
most exquisite he had ever read. Talking of 
himself, Johnson said, " Topham Beauclark has 
wit, and every thing comes from him with ease ; 
but when I say a good thing, I seem to labour." 
When we compare him with Addison, the con- 
trast is still stronger. Addison lends grace and 
ornament to truth -, Johnson gives it force and 
energy. Addison makes virtue amiable ; John- 
son represents it as an awful duty. Addison in- 
sinuates himself with an air of modesty ; John- 
eon commands like a dictator ; but a dictator in 
his splendid robes, not labouring at the plough. 
Addison is the Jupiter of Virgil, with placid 
serenity talking to Venus : 

" Vultu, quo ropluni tcmpestatesque screnat." 



Johnson is Jupiter Tonans ; he darts his 
lightning, and rolls his thunder, in the cause 
of virtue and piety. The language seems to 
fall short of his ideas ; he pours along, familiar- 
ising the terms of philosophy, with bold inver- 
sions, and sonorous periods; but we may apply 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. yji 

with the assumed character, is written with 
abated vigour, in a style of ease and unlaboured 
elegance. It is the Odyssey after the Iliad. 
Intense thinking would not become the Idler. 
The first number presents a well drawn por- 
trait of an Idler, and from that character no 
deviation could be made. Accordingly, John- 
son forgets his austere manner, and plays us 
into sense. He still continues his lectures on 
human life, but he adverts to common occur- 
rences, and is often content with the topic of 
the day. An advertisement in the beginning of 
the first volume informs us, that twelve entire 
Essays were a contribution from different 
hands. One of these, No. 33, is the journal of 
a Senior fellow at Cambridge, but, as Johnson, 
being himself an original thinker, always re- 
volted from scrvUe imitation, he has printed 
the piece, with an apology, importing that the 
journal of a citizen in the Spectator almost 
precluded the attempt of any subsequent writer. 
This account of the Idler may be closed, after 
observing, that the author's mother being 
buried on the 23d of January 1759, there is an 
admirable paper, occasioned by that event, on 
Saturday the 27th of the same month. No. 41. 



to him what Pope has said of Homer : — "It is j The reader, if he pleases, may compai'e it with 



the sentiment that swells and fills out the diction, 
which rises with it, and forms itself about it ; 
like glass in the furnace, which grows to a greater 
magnitude, as the breath within is more power- 
ful, and the heat more intense." 

It is not the design of this comparison to de- 
cide between those two eminent writers. In 
matters of taste" every reader will choose for him- 
self. Johnson is always profound, and of course 
gives the fatigue of thinking. Addison charms 
whUe he instructs ; and writing, as he always 
does, a pure, an el^ant, and idiomatic style, he 
may be pronounced the safest model for imita- 
tionc 

The Essays written by Johnson In the Ad- 
venturer maybe called a continuation of the 
Rambler. The Idler, in order to be consistent 



another fine paper in the Rambler, No. Si, on 
the conviction that rushes on the mind at the 
bed of a dying friend. 

The Idlers, during the time of their publi- 
cation, were frequently copied into contem- 
porary works without any acknowledgment. 
The author who was also a proprietor of the 
Universal Chronicle, in which they appeared, 
hurled his vengeance on the pirates in the fol- 
lowing " Hufi and Ci*y," which, as coming from 
Dr. Johnson's pen, may justly be deemed a 
literary curiosity. 

** London, Jan. 5, 1759. Advertisement. 
The proprietors of the paper, entitled " The 
Idler," having found that those essays are in 
serted in the newspapers and magazines with 
so little regard to justice or decency, that the 



Universal Chronicle in which they first appear, 
is not always mentioned, think it necessai-y to 
declare to the publishers of those collections, 
that however patiently they have hithei'to en- 
dured these injuries, made yet more injurious 
by contempt, they have now determined to en- 
dure them no longer.— They have already seen 
essays, for which a very large price is paid, 
transferred with the most shameless rapacity 
into the weekly or monthly compilations, and. 
their right, at least for the present, alienated 
from them, before they could themselves be 
said to enjoy it. But they would not willingly 
be thought to want tenderness even for men by 
whom no tenderness hath been shown. The 
past is without remedy, and shall be with- 
out resentment. But those who have been 
thus bxisy with their sickles in the fields of 
their neighbours, are henceforward to take 
notice, that the time of impunity is at an end. 
"Whoever shall without our leave, lay the hand 
of rapine upon our papers, is to expect that we 
shall vindicate our due, by the means which 
justice prescribes, and which are warranted by 
the immemorial prescriptions of honourable 
trade. We shall lay hold, in our turn, on their 
copies, degrade them from the pomp of wide 
margin and diffuse typography, contract them 
into a narrow space, and sell them at an hum- 
ble price ; yet not with a view of growing rich 
by confiscations, for we think not much better 
of money got by punishment than by crimes : 
we shall therefore, when our losses are repaid, 
give what profit shall remain to the Magdelens : 
for we know not who can be more properly 
taxed for the support of penitent prostitutes 
than prostitutes in whom there yet appears 
neither penitence nor shame." 

The effect of this singular manifesto is not 
now known; but if "essays for which a large 
price has been paid " be not words of course, 
they may prove that the author received an im- 
mediate remuneration for his labour, indepen- 
dent of his share in the general profits. 



HISTORICAL AND 

Nos. 33, 93, and 96, were written by Mr. 
Thomas Warton. Thomas Warton was tlic 
younger brother of Dr. Joseph "Warton, and 
was born at Basingstoke in 1728. He very 
early manifested a taste for verse ; and there is 
extant a well-turned translation of an epigram 
of Martial composed by him in his ninth year. 
He was educated under his father, who kept a 
school at Basingstoke, till he was admitted in 
1743 a commoner of Trinity College, Oxford. 
Here he exercised his poetical talent to so much 
advantage, that on the appearance of Mason's 
Elegy of " Isis," which severely reflected on 
the disloyalty of Oxford at that period, he was 
encouraged by Dr. Huddesford, president of 
his college, to vindicate the cause of the univer- 
sity. This task he performed with great ap- 
plause by writing, in his 2 1st year, " The 
Triumph of Isis ;" a piece of much spirit and 
fancy, in which he retaliated upon the bard of 
Cam by satirising the courtly venality then 
supposed to distinguish the loyal university, and 
sung in no common strains the past and present 
glories of Oxford. This on his part was fair 
warfare, though as a peace-offering he after- 
wards excluded the poem from his volume of 
collected pieces. His " Progress of Discontent," 
published in 1750 in a miscellany entitled " The 
Student," exhibited to great advantage his 
power in the familiar style, and his talent for 
humoiu*, with a knowledge of life extraordinary 
at his early age, especially if composed, as is 
said, for a college-exercise in 1746. In 1750 he 
took the degree of M. A., and in the following 
yer,r became a Fellow of his college. He ap- 
pears now to have unalterably devoted him- 
self to the pursuit of poetry and elegant litera- 
ture in a vmiversity-residence. Hia spirited 
satire, entitled " Newmarket," and pointed 
against the ruinous passion for the turf; hii 
"Ode for Music ;" and "Verses on the Death ol 
the Prince of Wales ;" were written about this 
time ; and in 1763 he was the editor of a small 
collection of poems, which, under the title of 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



" The Union," was printed at Edinburgh, and pieces in which lively miscellany he was the 
contained several of his own pieces. In 1754 iie writer. In 1766 he again appeared as a classical 
made himself known as a critic and a diligent ; editor by superintending the Anthology of 



student of poetical antiquities, by his observa- 
tions on Spenser's Fairy Queen, in one volume, 
afterwards enlarged to two volumes ; a work 
well received by the public, and which made a 
considerable addition to his literary reputation. 
These vai'ious proofs of his abilities caused him 
very properly to be elected in 1757 professor of 
poetry to the university, an office which he 
held for the usual period of ten years, and ren- 
dered respectable by the erudition and taste dis- 
played in his lectures. Dr. Johnson was at 
this time publishing his " Idler," and Warton, 
who had long been intimately acquainted with 
him, contributed the three papers we have 
mentioned to that work. He gave a specimen 
of his classical proficiency in 1758 by the publi- 
cation " Inscriptionum Romanarum Metricar- 
um Delectus," a collection of select Latin epi- 
grams and inscriptions, to which were annexed 
a few modern ones, on the antique model, five 
of them by himself. He drew up in 1760, for 
the Biographica Eritannica, the life of Sir 
Thomas Pope, which he published separately, 
much enlarged, in 1772 and 1780. Another 
contribution to literary biography was his 
" Life and literary Remains of Dr. Ba- 
thurst," published in 1761. A piece of local 
humour, which was read at the time with great 
avidity, dropped from his pen in 1760, with the 
title, " A Companion to the Guide, and a 
Guide to the Companion ; being a complete 
Supplement to all the Accounts of Oxford hith- 
erto published." The lapse of time, and the 
new reign, had now entirely restored to Oxford 
its ancient virtue of loyalty ; and Warton, who 
had lamented the death of George II. in a copy 
of verses addressed to Mr. Pitt, continued the 
courtly strain, though with due dignity, in 
lines on the mari'iage of George III. and on the 
birth of the Prince of Wales, printed in the 
university collection. Still ranking equally 
with the wits and with the poets of Isis, he 



Cephalus, printed at the Clarendon-press, to 
which he prefixed a learned and ingenious pre- 
face. He took the degree of B. D. in 1761, 
and in 1771 was instituted to the small living 
of Kiddington in Oxfordshire, on the presenta- 
tion of the Earl of Litchfield, then chancellor 
of the university. An edition of Theocritus in 
2 vols. 4to. which was published in 1770, gave 
him celebrity not only at home, but among the 
scholars of the continent. 

A History of English Poetry is said to have 
been meditated by Pope, who was but indiffer- 
ently qualified by learning, whatever he might 
have been by taste, for such an undertaking. 
Gray, who possessed every requisite for the 
work, except industry, entertained a distant 
idea of engaging in it, with the assistance of 
Mason ; but he shrunk from the magnitude of 
the task, and readily relinquished his project, 
when he heard that a similar design was adop- 
ted by Warton. At what -period he first occu- 
pied himself in this extensive plan of vtTiting 
and research, we are not informed ; but in 1774 
he had proceeded so far as to publish the first 
volume in quarto ; and he pursued an object, 
now apparently become the great mark of his 
studies, with so much assiduity, that he brought 
out a second volume in 1778, and a third in 
1781. He now relaxed in his labours, and never 
executed more than a few sheets of a fourth vo- 
lume. The work had grown upon his hands, 
and had greatly exceeded his first estimate ; so 
that the completion of the design, which was to 
have terminated only with the commencement 
of the eighteenth century, was stUl very remote, 
supposing a due proportion to have beon pre- 
served throughout. Warton's " History of 
Englibh Poetry" is regarded as his opus mag' 
num. ; and is indeed an ample monument of his 
reading, as well as of his taste and eritical judg- 
ment. The majority of its readers, however. 
Will probably be of opinion that he has dwelt 



edited in 1764 the " Oxford Sausage," of several too minutely upon those eai'ly periods in wWct 
Idler b 



X HISTORICAL AND 

poetry can scarcely be said to have existed in 
this country, and has been too profuse of tran- 
scripts from pieces destitute of all merit but 
their age. Considered, however, as literary an- 
iiquarianism, the work is very interesting ; and 
though inaccuracies have been detected, it can- 
Dot be denied to abound with curious informa- 
tion. His brother gave some expectation of 
Tarrying on the history to the compl^ion of the 
fourth volume, but seems to have done little or 
nothing towards fulfilling it. As a proof that 
Warton began to be weary of his task, it ap- 
pears that about 1781 he had tiu'ned his thoughts 
to another laborious undei-taking, which was a 
eounty-histoiy of Oxfordshire ; and in 1782 he 
published as a specimen a topogi^pHical account 
of his parish of Kiddington. In the same year 
he entered into the celebrated Chattertonian 
controversy, and published An Inquiry into the 
Authenticity of the Poems ascribed to Rowley, 
which he decidedly pronounced to be the fabri- 
cation of their pretended editor. His income 
was augmented in this year by presentation to 
a donative in Somersetshire ; and as he was free 
both from ambition and avarice he seems to have 
looked no farther for ecclesiastical promotion. 
In 1785 the place of Camden-professor of his- 
tory at Oxford, vacant by the resignation of the 
present Sir W. Scott, was conferred upon him. 
He attended to his duties so far as to deliver a 
learned and ingenious inaugural lecture, but that 
was the limit of his professional exertions. An- 
other oflBice at this time demanded new efforts. 
At his Majesty's express desire the post of Poet- 
laureat, vacated by the death of Whitehead, was 
offered to him ; and, in accepting it, he laudably 
resolved to use his best endeavours for rendering 
it respectable. He varied the monotony of an- 
niversary court compliment by retrospective 
views of the splertiid period of English history 
and the glories of chivalry, and by other topics 
adapted to poetical description, though little con- 
nected with the proper theme of the day ; and 
Ihough his lyric strains underwent some ridicule 
on that account, they in general enhanced the 
Jiterary valuation of laureat odes. His con- 



cluding publication was an edition of the juve- 
nile poems of Milton, in which it was his pur 
pose to explain his allusions, point out his inii. 
tations, illustrate his beauties, and elucidate h'u 
obsolete diction and peculiai* pliraseology. This 
was a task of no great effort to one qualified like 
Warton ; and engaging in it, rather than in the 
completion of his elaborate plans, seems to prove 
that the indolence of advancing years and a col- 
legiate life was gaining upon him. Of this 
work the first edition appeared in 1785, and the 
second in 1791, a short time before his death. 
He had intended to include in his plan a similar 
edition of the Paradise Regained, and the Sam- 
son Agonistes, of the great author, of whom, 
notwithstanding religious and political differ- 
ences, lie was a wai*m admirer; and he left 
notes on both these pieces. But his constitution 
now began to give way, though the period of 
old age was yet distant. In his 62nd yrar an 
attack of the gout shattered his frame, and was 
succeeded, in May 1790, by a paralytic seizui-e, 
which carried him off at his lodgings in Oxford. 
His remains were interred, with every academ- 
ical honour, in the chapel of Trinity College. 

The character of Thomas Warton was 
marked by some of those peculiarities which 
commonly fix upon a man the appellation of an 
humorist ; and a variety of stories current 
among the collegians show that he was mor.^ 
intent upon gratifying his own habitual tastes, 
than regardful of the usual modes and decoruma 
of society. But he was substantially good- 
liumoured, friendly, and placid ; and if his dis- 
like of form and'restraint sometimes made him 
prefor the company of inferiors to that of equals, 
the choice was probably in some measure con- 
nected with that love of nature, and spirit of 
independence, which may be discerned in his 
writings. That he employed a large portion of 
his time in the cultivation of his mind by curi- 
ous and elegant literature, his various produc- 
tions abundantly testify; yet he appears to 
have wanted the resolution and steady industry 
necessary for the completion of a great design j 
and some remarkable instances of inaccuracy or 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



SI 



forgetfulness prove that his exertions were 
rather desultory than regular. This disposition 
was less injurious to him in his poetical capa- 
city than in any other, whence he wiU pro- 
bably live longest in fame as a poet. Scarcely 
any one of that tribe has noted with finer ob- 
servation the minute circumstances in rural na- 
ture that afford pleasure in description, or has 
derived from the regions of fiction more ani- 
mated and picturesque scenery. His pieces are 
very various in subject, and none of them long. 
He can only rank among the minor poets ; but 
perhaps few volumes in that class will more 
frequently be taken up for real amusement. 
Several editions of his poems were called for in 
his life-time, and since his death an edition of 
bis works has been given by Mr. Mant, in 2 
rols. octavo, 1802, with a biographical account 
of the author prefixed. 

When Mr. Warton wrote his three papers in 
the Idler, he lived in habits of intimacy and 
correspondence with Dr. Johnson j he was 
likewise a member of the Literary Club, and 
made occasional journeys to Loudon, to attend 
thaA, and to enjoy the pleasures of Sir Joshua 
Reynolds' company, of whom some notice is 
now to be taken as writer of the Essays Nos. 
76, 79, and 82, in this work. 

Sir Joshua Reynolds was the son of a clergy- 
man at Plympton, in Devonshire, and bom there 
in 1723. Being intended for the church, he re- 
ceived a suitable education imder his father, and 
then removed to Oxford, where he took his de- 
grees in arts ; but having a great taste for draw- 
ing, he resolved to make painting his profession, 
and accordingly was placed under Hudson the 
portrait painter. About 1749 he went to Italy, 
in company with the honourable Mr. Keppel, 
his early friend and patron. After studying the 
works of the most illustrious masters two years, 
Mr. Reynolds returned to London, where he 
foimd no encouragement given to any other 
branch of the art than to portrait painting. 
He was of course under the necessity of com> 
plying with the prevailing taste, and in that 
walk soon became xmri vailed. The first picture 



by which he distinguished himself, after his re- 
turn, was the portrait of Mr. Keppel. He did 
not, however, confine himself to portraits, but 
painted several historical pictures of high and 
acknowledged merit. When the royal academy 
was instituted he was appointed president, 
which station he held with honour to himself 
and advantage to the arts till 1791, and then 
resigned it. He was also appointed principal 
painter to the king, and knighted. His literary 
merits, and other accomplishments, procured 
him the friendship of the most distinguished 
men of genius in his time, particularly 
Johnson, Burke, Goldsmith, and Garrick: and 
Sir Joshua had the honour of instituting the 
literary club, of which they were members. 
He was likewise a member of the royal society, 
and of that of antiquaries ; and was created 
doctor of laws by the universities of Oxford 
and Dublin. Sir Joshua's academical dis- 
courses display the soundest judgment, the 
most refined taste, and a perfect acquaintance 
with the works of different masters ; and are 
written in a clear and elegant style. He died 
in 1792, and lies buried in St. Paul^ cathedral. 
Having no children, he bequeathed the princi- 
pal part of his property to his niece, since mar- 
ried to the Earl of Inchiquin, now Marquis of 
Thomond. 

We shall conclude our sketch of the life of 
this illustrious artist, by quoting his opinion of 
Dr. Johnson, which is equally honourable to 
himself and his friend. Speaking of his own 
discourses, our great artist says, " Whatever 
merit they have must be imputed, in a great 
measure, to the education which I may be said 
to have had under Dr. Johnson. I do not 
mean to say, though it certainly would be to the 
credit of these discourses if I could say it with 
truth, that he contributed even a single senti- 
ment to them; but he qualified my mind to 
think justly. No man. had, like him, the facul- 
ty of teaching, inferior minds the art of think- 
ing. Perhaps other men might have equal 
knowledge, but few were bo communicative. 
His great pleasure was to talk to those who 



xu 



BIOGRAPHICAL AND HISTORICAL PREFACE. 



looked up to him. It was here he exhibited his 
wonderful powers. In mixed company, and 
frequently in company that ought to have looked 
up to him, many, thinking they had a chai'ac- 
ter for learning to support, considered it as be- 
neath them to enlist in the train of his auditors ; 
and to such persons he certainly did not appear 
to advantage, being often impetuous and ovei'- 
bearing. The desire of shining in conversation 
was in him indeed a predominant' passion; and 
if it must be attributed to vanity, let it at the 
same time be recollected, that it produced that 
loquaciousness from , which his more intimate 
frienda derived considerable advantage. The 



observations which he made on poetry, on life, 
and on every thing about us, I applied to our 
art, with what success others must judge." 

No. 67 was wi-itten by another intimate and 
affectionate fi'iend of Dr. Johnson's, Bennet 
Langton, Esq. of Langton in Lincolnshire. 
His acquaintaince with Dr. Johnson com- 
menced soon after the conclusion of the Ram- 
bler, which Mr. Langton, then a youth, had 
read with so much admiration that Mr. Bos- 
well says he came to London chiefly with a 
view of being introduced to its author. Mr. 
Langton died December the 18th, 1801. 



THE IDLER. 



No. 1.] Satukday, April 15, 176a 

Vacul sub umbra 
Liusfmus. HOR. 

Those who attempt periodical essays seem to 
be often stopped in the beginning by the difficul- 
ty of finding a proper title. Two writers, since 
the time of the Spectator, have assumed his 
name, without any pretensions to lawful inher- 
itance ; an effort was once made to revive the 
Tatter; and the strange appellations by which 
other papers have been called, show that the 
authors were distressed, like the natives of 
America, who come to the Europeans to beg a 
name. 

It will be easily believed of the Idler, that if 
his title had required any search, he never 
•would have found it. Every mode of life has 
its conveniences. The Idler, who habituates 
himself to be satisfied with what he can most 
easily obtain, not only escapes labours which 
are often fruitless, but sometimes succeeds 
better than those who despise all that is within 
their reach, and think every thing more valua- 
ble as it is harder to be acquired. 

If similitude of manners be a motive to kind- 
ness, the Idler may flatter himself with univer- 
sal patronage. There is no single character 
under which such numbers are comprised. 
Every man is, or hopes to be, an Idler. Even 
those who seem to differ most from us are hast- 
ening to increase our fraternity ; as peace is the 
end of war, so to be idle is the ultimate pur- 
pose of the busy. 

There is, perhaps, no appellation by which a 
writer can better denote his kindred to the hu- 
man species. It has been found hard to de- 
scribe man by an adequate definition. Some 
pliilosophers have called him a reasonable ani- 
mal ; but others have considered reason as a 
quality of which many creatures partake. He 
has been tenned, likewise, a laughing animal ; 
but it is said that sopie men have never laughed. 



Perhaps man may be more properly distin- 
guished as an idle animal; for there is no man 
who is not sometimes idle. It is at least a de- 
finition from which none that shall find it in 
this pai)€r can be excepted ; for who can be 
more idle than the reader of the Idler? 

That the definition may be complete, idleness 
must be not only the general, but the peculiar 
characteristic of man ; and, perhaps, man is the 
only being that can properly be called idle, that 
does by others what he might do himself, or 
sacrifices duty or pleasure to the love of ease. 

Scarcely any name can be imagined from 
which less envy or competition is to be dreaded. 
The Idler has no rivals or enemies. The man 
of business forgets him ; the man of enterprise 
despises him ; and though such as tread the 
same track of life fall commonly into jealousy 
and discord, Idlers are always found to associate 
in peace ; and he who is most famed for doing 
nothing, is glad to meet another as idle as him- 
self. 

What is to be expected from this paper, 
whether it will be uniform or various, learned 
or familiar, serious or gay, political or moral, 
continued or interrupted, it is hoped that no 
reader will inquire. That the Idler has some 
scheme cannot be doubted ; for to form schemes 
is the Idler's privilege. But though he has 
many projects in his head, he is now grown 
sparing of communication, having observed, that 
his hearei-s ,are apt to remember what he for- 
gets himself; that his tardiness of execution 
exposes him to the encroachments of those who 
catch a hint and fall to work ; and that very 
specious plans, after long contrivance and pom- 
pous displays, have subsided in weariness with- 
out a tiial, and without miscarriage have been 
blasted by derision. ■ 

Something the Idler's character may be sup- 
posed to promise. Those that are cui-ious after 
diminutive history, who watch the revolut'ons 
of families, and the rise and fall of charr ters 
B 



2 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 



eithei m«ile or female, will hope to be gratifio.l 
by tills paper; for the IdJcr is always inquisi- 
tive and seldom retentive. He that delights in 
obloquy and satire, and wishes to see clouds 
gathering over any reputation that dazzles him 
Tvitl' its brightness, wil snatch up the Idler's 
essays with a beating heart. Tlie IdL-r is natu- 
rally censorious; those who attempt notliJng 
themselves, think every thing easily performed, 
and consider the unsuccessful always as crim- 
inal. 

I think it necessarj' to give notice, tlvat I 
make no contract, nor incur any obligation. If 
those Avho depend on the Idler for intelligence 
and entertainment, should suffer the di.sapi)oint- 
ment which commonly follows ill-placed ex- 
pectations, they are to lay the blame only on 
themselves. 

Yet hope is not w^holly to be cast away. The 
Idler, though sluggish, is yet alive, and may 
sometimes be stimulated to vigour and activity. 
He may descend into profoundness, or tower 
into sublimity ; for the diligence of an Idler is 
rapid and impetuous, as ponderous bodies forced 
into velocity move with violence proportionate 
to their weight. 

But these vehement exertions of intellect can- 
not be frequent, and he will therefore gladly 
receive help from any correspondent, who shall 
enable him to please without his own labour. 
He excludes no stjle, he prohibits no subject ; 
only let him that writes to the Idler remember, 
that his letters must not be long : no words are 
to be squandered in declaration of esteem, or 
confessions of inability; conscious dulness has 
little right to be prolix, and praise is not so 
welcome to the Idler as quiet. 



Ko. 2.] Saturday, April 22, 1758. 

Toto vix quater anno 
Mcmbrancnn. hor. 

Many positions are often on the tongue, and 
seldom in the mind j there are many truths 
which every human being acknowledges and 
forgets. It is generally known, that he who 
expects much will be often disappointed ; yet 
disappointment seldom cures us of expectation, 
or has any other effect than tliat of producing 
a moral sentence, or peevish exclamation.. He 
that embarks in the voyage of life, will always 
wish to advance rather by the impulse of the 
wind, than the strokes of the car; and many 
founder in the passage, while they lie waiting 
for the gale that is to waft them to their wish. 

It will naturally be suspected that the Idler 
has lately suffered some disappointment, and 
that he does not talk thus gravely for nothinj. 
Ko man is required to betray his own secrets. I 
will, however, coni'ess, that I have now been a 



writer almost a week, and have not yet heard a 
single word of praise, nor received one hiut 
from any correspondent. 

AVhence this negligence proceeds I am not 
able to discover. IMany of my predecessors 
have thought themselves obliged to return their 
acknowledgments in the second paper, for tlie 
kind reception of the first, and in a short time 
apologies have beccm" necessary to those ingen- 
ious gentlemen and ladies whose performances, 
though in the highest degree elegant and 
learned, have been unavoidably delayed. 

What then will be thought of me, who, hav- 
ing experienced no kindness, have no thanks to 
return ; ^^'hom no gentleman or lady has yet 
enabled to give any cause of discontent, and 
who have, thci-efore, no opportunity of showing 
how skilfully I can pacify resentment, extenu- 
ate negligence, or palliate rejection? 

I have long known that splendour of reputa- 
tion is not to be counted among the necessaries 
of life, and therefore shall not much repine if 
praise be withheld till it is better deserved. 
But surely I may be allowed to complain that, 
in a nation of authors, not one has thought me 
worthy of notice after so fair an invitation. 

At the time when the rage of wi'iting had 
seized the old and the young, when the cook 
warbles her IjtIcs in the kitchen, and the 
thrasher vociferates his heroics in the barn ; 
when our traders deal out knowledge in bulky 
volumes, and our girls forsake their samplers to 
teach kingdoms wisdom, it may seem very un- 
necessary to di-aw any more from their proper 
occupations, by affording new opportunities, of 
literary fame. 

I should be, indeed, unwilling to find that, 
for the sake of corresponding with the Idler, the 
smith's iron had cooled on the anvU, or the 
spinster's distaff stood unemployed. I solicit 
only the contributions of those who have al- 
ready devoted themselves to literature, or, with- 
out any determinate intention, wander at large 
though the expanse of life, and wear out the 
day in hearing at one place what they utter at 
another. 

Of these, a great part are already writers. 
One has a friend in the country upon whom he 
exercises his powers ; whose passions he raises 
and depresses ; whose understanding he per- 
plexes with paradoxes, or strengthens by argu- 
ment ; whose admiration he courts, whose 
praises he enjoys ; and who serves him instead 
of a senate or a theati-e ; as the young soldiers 
in the Roman camp learned the use of their 
weapons by fencing against a post in the place 
of an enemy. 

Another has 'his pockets filled with essays 
and epigrams, which he reads from house '■.o 
\ house, to select parties, and which his acquaint- 
ances are daily entreating him to withhold no 
longer from the impatience of the public. 



Na 3.] 



THE IDLER. 



If among these any one is persuaded that, by 
such preludes of composition, he has qualified 
himself to appeal" in the open world, and is yet 
afraid of those censures which they who have 
already written, and they "«'ho cannot write, 
are equally ready to fulminate against public 
pretenders to fame, he may, by transmitting 
his performances to the Idler, make a cheap ex- 
periment of his abilities, and enjoy the pleasure 
of success, without the hazard of miscarriage. 

Many advantages not generally known arise 
from this method of stealing on the public. 
The standing author of the paper is always the 
object of critical malignity. Whatever is mean 
will be imputed to him, and whatever is excel- 
lent be ascribed to his assistants. It does not 
mucli alter the event, that the author and his 
correspondents are equally unknown ; for the 
author, whoever he be, is an individual, of 
whom every reader has some fixed idea, and 
whom he is, therefore, unwilling to gratify 
with applause ; but the praises given to his cor- 
respondents are scattered in the air, none can 
tell on whom they will light, and therefore none 
are unwilling to bestow them. 

He that is known to contribute to a periodical 
work, needs no other caution than not to tell 
what particular pieces are his own ; such secrecy 
is, indeed, A-ery difficult ; but if it can be main- 
tained, it is scarcely to be imagined at how 
small an expense he may grow considerable. 

A person of quality, by a single paper, may 
engross the honom- of a volume. Fame is, in- 
deed, dealt tvith a hand less and less bounteous 
through the subordinate ranks, till it descends 
to the professed author, who will find it very 
difficult to get more than he deserves ; but every 
man who does not want it, or who needs not 
value it, may have liberal allowances ; and, for 
five letters in the year sent to the Idler, of 
which perhaps only two are printed, will be 
promoted to the first rank of A^-riters by those 
who are weary of the present race of wits, 
and wish to sink them into obscm-ity before the 
lustre of a name not yet known enough to be 
detested. 



No. 3.] Saturday, April 29, 1758. 

Otia vita 
Solamur cantu. stat. 

Ir-haj long been the complaint of those who 
frequent the theatre, that all the dramatic art 
has been long exhausted, and that the vicissi- 
tudes of fortune, and accidents of life, have been 
shown in every possible combination, till the 
first scene informs us of the last, and the play 
no sooner opens, than every auditor knows how 
it will conclude. When a conspiracy is fonned 
iu a tragedy, we guess by whom it Avill be de- 



tected ; when a letter is dropt in a comedy, we 
can tell by whom it will be found. Nothing is 
now left for the poet but character and senti- 
ment, which are to make their way as they can, 
without the soft anxiety of suspense, or the en- 
livening agitation of surprise. 

A new paper lies under the same disadvan- 
tages as a new play. There is danger lest it be 
new without novelty. 

My earlier predecessors had their choice of 
vices and follies, and selected such as were most 
likely to raise merriment or attract attention ; 
they had the whole field of life before them, un- 
trodden and unsurveyed; characters of every 
kind shot up in their way, and those of the most 
luxuriant growth, or most conspicuous colours, 
were naturally cropt by the first sickle. They 
that foUow are forced to peep into neglected cor- 
ners, to note the casual varieties of the same 
species, and to recommend themselves by minute 
industry, and distinctions too subtle for com- 
mon eyes. 

Sometimes it may happen that the haste or 
negligence of the first inquirers has left enough 
behind to reward another search ; sometimes 
new objects start up under the eye, and he that 
is looking for one kind of matter, is amply 
gratified by the discovery of another. But still 
it must be allowed, that, as more is taken, less 
can remain ; and every truth brought newly to 
light impoverishes the mine from which suc- 
ceeding intellects are to dig their treasures. 

Many philosophers imagine that the elements 
themselves may be in time exhausted ; that the 
sun, by shining long, will effuse all its light ; 
and that, by the continual waste of aqueous par- 
ticles, the whole earth wiU at last become a 
sandy desert. 

I would not advise my readers to disturb 
themselves by contriving how they shall live 
without light and water. For the days of uni- 
versal thirst and perpetual darkness are at a 
great distance. The ocean and the sun will 
last our time, and we may leave posterity to 
shift for themselves. 

But if the stores of nature are limited, much 
more narrow bounds must be set to the modes of 
life ; and mankind may want a moi*al or amusing 
paper, many years before they shall be deprived 
of drink or day-light. This want, which to 
the busy and inventive may seem easily remedi- 
able by some substitute or other, the Avhole j-ace 
of Idlers will feel with all the sensibility that 
such torpid animals can suffer. 

When I consider the innumerable multitudes 
that, having no motive of desire, or determina- 
tion of will, lie freezing in perpetual inactivity, 
till some external impidse puts them in motion; 
who awake in the morning, vacant of thought, 
with minds gaping for the intellectual food, 
which some kind essayist has been accustomed 
to supply, 1 am moved by the commiseration 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 4. 



with whlcli all human beings ought to behold 
the distresses of eacli other, to try some expedi- 
ents for their relief, and to inquire by what 
methods the listless may be actuated, and the 
empty be replenished. I 

There are said to be pleasures in madness 
known only to madmen. There are certainly ' 
miseries in idleness which the Idler only can 
conceive. These miseries I have often felt and [ 
often bewailed. I know by experience how 
welcome is every avocation that summons the 
thoughts to a new image ; and how much lan- 
guor and lassitude are relieved by that officious- 
ness which oifers a momentary amusement to 
him who is unable to find it for himself. 

It is naturally indifferent to this race of men 
what entertainment they receive, so they are 
but entertained. They catch, with equal eager- 
ness, at a moral lecture, or the memoirs of a rob- 
ber ; a prediction of the appearance of a comet, 
or the calculation of the chances of a lottery. 

They might thei'efore, easily be pleased if 
they consulted only their own minds ; but those 
who will not take the trouble to think for 
themselves, have always somebody that thinks 
for them; and the difficulty of writing is to 
please those from whom others learn to be 
pleased. 

Much mischief is done in the world with very 
little interest or design. He that assumes the 
character of a critic, and justifies his claim by 
perpetual censure, imagines that he is hurting 
none but the author, and him he considers as 
a pestilent animal, whom every other being has 
a right to persecute ; little does he think how 
many harmlesss men he involves in his own 
guilt, by teaching them to be noxious without 
malignity, and to repeat objections which they 
do not undei'stand ; or how many honest minds 
he debars from pleasure, by exciting an artificial 
fastidiousness, and making them too wise to 
concur with their own sensations. He who is 
taught by a critic to dislike that which pleased 
him in his natural state, has the same reason 
to complain of his instructor, as the madman 
to rail at his doctor, who when he thought him- 
self master of Peru, physicked him to poverty. 

If men will struggle against their own advan- 
tage they are not to expect that the Idler will 
take much pains upon them; he has himself to 
please as well as them, and has long learned, 
or endeavoured to learn, not to make the pleas- 
ure of others too necessary to his own. 



■*^-vv%-wx^ 



No. 4.] Saturday, May. 6, 1758. 

UxvTocs y«§ (fiXkirxi. HOM. 

Charity, or tenderness for the poor, which is 
now justly considered, by a great part of man- 
kijid; as inseparable froiij piety, and in which 



almost all the goodness of the present age con- 
sists, is, I think, known only to those who 
enjoy, either immediately or by transmission, 
the light of revelation. 

Those ancient nations who have given xis the 
wisest models of government, and the brightest 
examples of patriotism, whose institutions have 
been transcribed by all succeeding legislatures, 
and whose history is studied by every candidate 
for political or military reputation, have left 
behind them no mention of alms-houses or hos- 
pitals, of places where age might repose, or sick- 
ness be i;elieved. 

The Roman emperors, indeed, gave large 
donatives to the citizens and soldiers, but these 
distributions were always reckoned rather 
popular than virtuous ; nothing more was in- 
tended than an ostentation of liberality, nor 
was any recompense expected, but suffrages and 
acclamations. 

Their beneficence was merely occasional ; he 
that ceased to need the favour of the people, 
ceased likewise to court it; and therefore, no 
man thought it either necessary or wise to make 
any standing provision for the needy, to look 
forwards to the wants of posterity, or to secure 
successions of charity, for successions of dis- 
tress. 

Compassion is, by some reasoners, on whom 
the name of philosophers has been too easily 
conferred, resolved into an affection merely self- 
ish, an involuntary perception of pain at the 
involuntary sight of a being like ourselves lan- 
guishing in misery. But this sensation, if ever 
it be felt at aU from the brute instinct of unin- 
structed nature, will only produce effects desul- 
tory and transient; it will never settle into a 
principle of action, or extend relief to calamities 
unseen, in genei^tions not yet in being. 

The devotion of life or fortune to the succour 
of the poor, is a height of virtue to which hu- 
manity has never risen by its own power. The 
charity of the Mahometans is a precept which 
their teacher evidently transplanted from the 
doctrines of Christianity ; and the care with 
which some of the Oriental sects attend, as it is 
said, to the necessities of the diseased and indi- 
gent, may be added to the other arguments 
which prove Zoroaster to have borrowed his in- 
stitutions from the law of Moses. 

The present age, though not likely to shine 
hereafter among the most splendid periods of 
history, has yet given examples of charity 
which may be very properly recommended to 
imitation. The equal distribution of wealth, 
which long commerce has produced, does not en- 
able any single hand to raise edifices of piety 
like fortified cities, to appropriate manors to re- 
ligious uses, or deal out such large and lasting 
beneficence as was scattered over the land in 
ancient times, by those who possessed counties, 
or provinces. But no sooner is a new species ol 



No. 5.2 



misery brought to view, and a desig^n of reliev- 
ing it professed, than every hand is open to con- 
tribute something, every tongue is busied in 
Bolicitation, and every art of pleasure is em- 
ployed for a time in the interest of virtue. 

The most apparent and pressing miseries in- 
cident to man, have now their peculiar houses 
of reception and relief; and there are few 
among us, raised however little above the dan- 
ger of poverty, who may not justly claim, what 
is implored by the Mahometans in their most 
ardent benedictions, the prayers of the poor. 

Among those actions which the mind can 
most securely review with unabated pleasiire, is 
that of having contributed to an hospitcd for the 
sick. Of some kinds of charity the conse- 
quences are dubious; some evils which benefi- 
cence has been busy to remedy, are not certainly 
known to be very grievous to the sufferer or 
detrimental to the community ; but no man can 
question whether wounds and sickness are not 
really painful ; whether it be not worthy of a 
good man's care to restore those to ease and use- 
fulness, from whose labour infants and women 
expect their bread, and who, by a casual hui't, or 
lingering disease, lie pining in want and 
anguish, burthensome to othei-s, and weary of 
themselves. 

Yet, as the hospitals of the present time sub- 
sist only by gifts bestowed at pleasure, without 
any solid fund of support, there is danger lest 
the blaze of charity, which now burns with so 
much heat and splendour, should die away for 
wanting of lasting fuel; lest fashion should 
suddenly withdraw her smile, and inconstancy 
transfer the public attention to something which 
may appear more eligible, because it will be 
new. 

Whatever is left in the hands of chance must 
be subject to vicissitude ; and when any estab- 
lishment is found to be useful, it ought to be 
the next care to make it permanent. 

But man is a transitory being, and his designs 
must partake of the imperfections of their 
author. To confer duration is not always in 
our power. We must snatch the present mo- 
ment, and employ it well, without too much 
solicitude for the future, and content ourselves 
with reflecting that oui- part is performed. He 
that waits for a« opportunity to do much at 
once, may breathe out his life in idle wishes, 
and regret, in the last hour, his useless inten- 
tions, and barren zeal. 

The most active promoters of the present 
schemes of charity, cannot be cleared from some 
instances of misconduct, which may awaken 
contempt or censure, and hasten that neglect 
which is likely to come too soon of itself. The 
open competitions between different hospitals, 
and the animosity with which their patrons 
oppose one another, may prejudice weak minds 
against them aU. For it will not be easily 



THE IDLER. 



believed, that any man can, for good reasons^ 
wish to exclude another from doing good. The 
spirit of charity can only be continued by a re- 
conciliation of these ridiculous feuds; and, 
therefore, instead of contentions who shall be 
the only benefactors to the needy, let there be 
no other struggle than who shall be the first. 



No. 5.] Saturday, May 13, 1758. 

KaXXos 

Ayr iy^itkiv ktroivriaf 
'Avt' ica-ri^ciiv oi^xcuVf ANAC. 

Our military operations are at last begun ; our 
troops are marching in all the pomp of war, and 
a camp is marked out on the Isle of Wight ; the 
heart of every Englishman now swells with 
confidence, though somewhat softened by gen- 
erous compassion for the consternation and dis- 
tresses of our enemies. 

This fonnidable armament, and splendid 
march, produce different effects upon diffei'ent 
minds, according to the boundless diversities of 
temper, occupation, and habits of thought. 

Many a tender maiden considers her lover as 
already lost, because he cannot reach the camp 
but by crossing the sea ; men of a more political 
understanding are persuaded that we shall now 
see, in a few days, the ambassadors of France 
supplicating for pity. Some are hoping for a 
bloody battle, because a bloody battle makes a 
vendible naiTative ; some are composing songs 
of victory ; some planning arches of triumph ; 
and some are mixing fireworks for the celebra- 
tion of a peace. 

Of all extensive and complicated objects dif- 
ferent parts are selected by different eyes ; and 
minds are variously affected, as they vary their 
attention. The care of the public is now fixed 
upon our soldiers, who are leaving their native 
country to wander, none can tell how long, in 
the pathless deserts of the Isle of Wight. The 
tender sigh for their sufferings, and the gay 
drink to their success. I who look, or believe 
myself to look, Avith more philosophic eyes on 
human affairs, must confess, that I saw the 
troops march with little emotion ; my thoughts 
were fixed upon other scenes, and the tear stole 
into my eyes, not for those who were going 
away, but for those who were left behind. 

We have no reason to doubt but our troops 
will proceed with proper caution ; there are 
men among them who can take care of them- 
selves. But how shall the ladies endure with- 
out them ? By what arts can they, who have 
long had no joy but from the civilities of a sol- 
dier, now amuse their hours, and solace their 
separation? 

Of fifty thousand men, now destined to differ- 
ent stations, if we allow each to have been occa- 



6 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 6. 



sionally necessary only to four women, a short 
computation will inform us, that two hundred 
thousand ladies are left to languish in distress; 
two hundred thousand ladies, who must run to 
sales and auctions without an attendant ; sit at 
the play without a critic to direct their opinion ; 
buy their fans by their own judgment; dispose 
shells by their own invention ; walk In the Mall 
without a gallant ; go to the gardens without a 
protector; and shuflie c<irds with vain impa- 
tience, for want of a foiu'th to complete the 
party. 

Of these ladies, some, I hope, have lap-dogs, 
and some monkeys ; but they are unsatisfactory 
companions. Many useful offices are performed 
by men of scarlet, to which neither dog nor 
monkey has adequate abilities. A parrot, indeed, 
is as fine as a colonel, and, if he has been nauch 
used to good company, is not wholly without 
conversation ; but a parrot, after all, is a poor 
little creatui-e, and has neither sword nor shoul- 
der-knot, can neither dance nor play at cards. 

Since the soldiers must obey the call of their 
duty, and go to that side of the kingdom which 
faces France, I know not why the ladies, who 
cannot live without them, should not follow 
them. The prejudices and pride of man have 
long presumed the sword and spindle made for 
different hands, and denied the other sex to par- 
take the grandeur of military glory. This no- 
tion may be consistently enough received in 
France, where the salique law excludes females 
from the throne ; but we, who allow thfim to 
be sovereigns, may surely suppose them capable 
to be soldiers. 

It were to be wished that some men, whose 
experience and authority might enforce regard, 
would propose that our encampments for the 
present year should comprise an equal number 
of men and women, who should march and 
fight in mingled bodies. If proper colonels 
were once appointed, and the drums ordered to 
beat for female volunteers, our regiments would 
soon be filled without the reproach or cruelty of 
an impress. 

Of these heroines some might serve on foot, 
imder the denomination of the Female Buffs, 
and some on horseback, Avith the title of idrfy 
Hussars. 

What objections can be made to this scheme I 
have endeavoui'ed maturely to consider, and 
cannot find that a modern soldier has any duties 
except that of obedience, which a lady cannot 
perform. If the hair has lost its powder, a 
lady has a puff; if a coat be spotted, a lady has 
a brush. Strength is of less importance since 
fire-arms have been used ; blows of the hand are 
now seldom exchanged ; and what is there to 
be done in the charge or the retreat beyond the 
powers of a sprightly maiden ? 

Our masculine squadrons will not suppose 
themselves disgi'aced by their auxiliaries, till 



they have done something which women could lii 
not have done. The troops of Bi'addock never " \ 
saw their enemies, and perhaps were defeated by 
women. If our American general had headed 
an army of girls, he might still have built a fort 
and taken it. Had Minorca been defended by 
a female gaiTison, it might have been surren- 
dered, as it was, without a breach ; and I can- 
not but think, that seven thousand women 
might have ventured to look at Rochfort, sack a 
village, rob a vineyard, and return in safety. 



No. 6.] Saturday, May 20, 1758. 

Ta^fiUioy a^iTY.i yivaiet yuvYf GR. PRO. 

The lady who had undertaken to ride on one 
horse a thousand miles in a thousand hours, has 
completed her journey in little more than two 
thirds of the time stipulated, and was conducted 
through the last mile with triumphal honours. 
Acclamation shouted before her, and all the 
flowers of the spring were scattered in her 
way. 

Every heart ought to rejoice when true merit 
is distinguished with public notice. I am far 
from wishing either to the Amazon or her 
horse any diminution of happiness or fame, and 
cannot but lament that they were not more 
amply and suitably rewarded. 

There was once a time when vvTeaths of bays 
or oak were considered as recompenses equal to 
the most wearisome laboui*s and terrific dan- 
gers, and when the miseries of long marches 
and stormy seas were at once driven from the 
remembrance by the fragrance of a garland. 

If this heroine had been born in ancient 
times, she might, perhaps, have been delighted 
with the simplicity of ancient gratitude ; or, if 
any thing was wanting to full satisfaction, she 
might have supplied the deficiency with the 
hope of deification, and anticipated the altars 
that would be raised, and the vows that would 
be made, by futiu-e candidates for equestrian 
glory, to the patroness of the race, and the god- 
dess of the stable. 

But fate reserved her for a more enlightened 
age, which has discovered leaves and flowers to 
be transitory things ; which considers profit as 
the end of honour ; and rates the event of every 
undertaking only by the money that is gained 
or lost. In these days, to strew the road with 
daises and lilies is to mock merit, and delude 
hope. The toyman will not give his jewels, nor 
the mercer measure out his silks for vegetable 
coin. A primrose, though picked up under the 
feet of the most renowned courser, will neither 
be received as a stake at cards, nor procure a 
seat at an opera, nor buy candles for a rout, nor 
lace for a livery. And though there are many 
virtuosos, whose sole ambition is to possess 
something which can be found in no other 



No. 7.] 



THE IDLER. 



hand, yet some are more accustonied to store . 
their cabinets by theft than purchase, and none i 
of them would either steal or buy one of the i 
flowers of gratulation till he knows that all the 
rest are totally destroyed. 

I^ittle, therefore, did it avail this wonderful 
lady to be received, however joyfully, ^dth such 
obsolete and barren ceremonies of praise. Had 
the way been covered with guineas, though but 
for the tenth part of the last mile, she would 
have considered her skill and diligence as not 
wholly lost ; and might have rejoiced in the 
speed and perseverance vehich had left her such 
superfluity of time, that she could at leisure 
gather her reward without the danger of Ata- 
lanta's miscarriage. 

So much ground could not, indeed, have been 
paved with gold but at a large expense, and we 
are at present engaged in a war, which demands 
and enforces frugality. But common rules are 
made only for ccmm.cn life, and some deviation 
from general policy may be allowed in favom* of 
a lady that rode a thousand miles in a thousand 
hours. 

Since the spirit of antiquity so much prevails 
amongst us, that even on this great occasion we 
have given flo"wers instead of money, let us at 
least complete our imitation of the ancients, and 
endeavour to transmit to posterity the memory 
of that virtue which Ave consider as superior to 
pecuniary recompense. Let an equestrian statue 
of this heroine be erected, near the starting-post 
on the heath of Newmarket, to fill kindred 
souls with emulation, and teU the grand-daugh- 
ters of our grand-daughters what an English 
maiden has once performed. 

As events, however illustrious, are soon ob- 
scured if they are intrusted to tradition, I think 
it necessary that the pedestal shoidd be inscribed 
with a concise account of this great performance. 
The composition of this narrative ought not to 
be committed rashly to improper hands. If 
the rhetoricians of Newmarket, who may be 
supposed likely to conceive in its full strength 
the dignity of the subject, should undertake to 
express it, there is danger lest they admit some 
phi-ases which, though well understood at pre- 
sent, may be ambiguous in another century. If 
posterity should read on a public monument, 
that the lady carried her horse a thousand 7nilcs in ' 
a thousand hours, they may think that the statue , 
and inscription ai'e at variance, because one wiU 
represent the horse as carrying Lis lady, and the 
other teU that the lady carried her horse. 

Some doubts likewise may be raised by specu- 
latists, and some controversies he agitated among 
historians, concerning the motive as well as the 
manner of the action. As it will be known that 
tills wonder was performed in a tim-e of war, 
Kome wiU suppose that the lady was frightened 
by invaders, and fled to preserve her life or her 
ihastity : others wiU conjecture that she was 



thus honoiu'ed for some intelligence carried of 
the enemy's designs : some will tliink that she 
brought news of a victory : others that she w&^ 
commissioned to teU of a conspiracy : and some 
will congratulate themselves on their acuter 
penetration, and find, that all these notions of 
patriotism and public spirit are improbable and 
chimerical ; they will confidently tell, that she 
only ran away from her guardians, and the true 
causes of her speed were, fear and love. 

Let it therefore be carefully mentioned, that 
by this perfoi-mance she won her wager; and, lest 
this shoidd, by any change of manners, seem 
an inadequate or incredible incitement, let it be 
added, that at this time the original motives 
of human actions had lost their influence ; that 
the love of praise was extinct ; tlie fear of in- 
famy was become i-idiculous ; and the only wish 
of an Englishman was, to u'in his xvager. 



No. 7.] Saturdat, IMay 27, 175S. 



One of the principal amusements of the Idler 
is, to read the works of those minute liistorians 
the writers of news, who, though contemptu- 
ously overlooked by the composers of bulky 
volumes, are yet necessary in a nation where 
much wealth produces much leisure, and one 
part of the people has nothing to do but to ob- 
serve the lives and fortunes of the other. 

To us, who are regaled every morning and 
evening with intelligence, and are supplied 
from day to day with materials for convei-sa- 
tion, it is diflficult to conceive how man can sub- 
sist without a newspaper, or to what entertain- 
ment companies can assemble in those wide 
regions of the earth that have neither Chronicles 
nor Magazines, neither Gazettes nor Adver- 
tisers, neither Journals nor Evening Posts. 

There are never great numbers in any nation, 
whose reason or invention can find employment 
for their tongues, who can raise a pleasing dis- 
course from their own stock of sentiments and 
images ; and tiiose few who have qualified them- 
selves by speculation for geneind disquisitions 
are soon left without an audience. ITie com- 
mon talk of men must relate to facts in which 
the talkers have, or think they have an interest ; 
and where such facts cannot be known, the 
pleasures of society will be merely sensual. 
Thus the natives of the Mahometan empires, 
who approach most nearly to Exiropeon civility, 
have no higher pleasure at their convivial as- 
semblies than to hear a piper, or gaze npon a 
tumbler ; and no company can keep together 
longer than they are diverted by sounds or 
shows. 

All foreigners remark, that the knowledge of 
the common people of f^ugland is greater than 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 8. 



that of any other vulgar. This superiority we 
nndoubtedly owe to the rivulets of intelligence 
which are continually trickling among us, which 
every one may catch, and of which every one 
partakes. 

This univei-sal diffusion of instruction is, 
perhaps, not wholly without its inconveniences; 
it certainly fills the nation with superficial dis- 
putants ; enables those to talk who were born 
to work ; and affords information sufficient to 
elate vanity, and stiffen obstinacy, but too little 
to enlarge the mind into complete skill for full 
comprehension. 

Whatever is found to gratify the public will 
be multiplied, by the emulation of venders, be- 
yond necessity or use. This plenty, indeed, pro- 
duces cheapness, but cheapness always ends in 
negligence and depravation. 

The compilation of newspapers is often com- 
mitted to narrow and mercenary minds, not 
qualified for the task of delighting or instruct- 
ing; who are content to fill their paper, with 
whatever matter, without industry to gather, 
or discernment to select. 

Thus journals are daily multiplied without 
Increase of knowledge. The tale of the morn- 
ing paper is told again in the evening, and the 
naiTatives of the evening are bought again in 
the morning. These repetitions, indeed, waste 
time, but they do not shorten it. The most 
eager peruser of news is tired before he has 
completed his labour ; and many a man, who 
enters the coffee-house in his night-gown and 
slippers, is called away to his shop, or his din- 
ner, before he has well considered the state of 
Europe. 

It is discovered by Reaumur, that spiders 
might make silk, if they could be persuaded to 
live in peace together. The writers of news, if 
they could be confederated, might give more 
pleasure to the public. The morning and even- 
ing authors might divide an event between 
them ; a single action, and that not of much 
importance, might be gradually discovered, so 
as to vary a whole week with joy, anxiety, and 
conjecture. 

We know that a French ship of war was 
lately taken by a ship of England; but this 
event was suffered to burst upon us all at once, 
and then what we knew already was echoed 
from day to day, and from week to week. 

Let us suppose these spiders of literature to 
spin together, and inquire to what an extensive 
web such another event might be regularly 
drawn, and how six morning and six evening 
writers might agree to retail their articles. 

On INIonday morning the captain of a shij) 
might arrive, who left the Friseur of France, 
and the Bull-dog, captain Grim, in sight of one 
another^ so that an engagement seemed una- 
voidable. 

Monday evening, A sound of cannon was 



heard off Cape Finlsterre, supposed to be those 
of the Bull-dog and Friseur. 

Tuesday morning. It was this morning re- 
ported, that the Bull-dog engaged the Fi-iseur, 
yard-arm and yard-arm, three glasses and a 
half, but was obliged to sheer off for want oi 
powder. It is hoped that inquiry will be made 
into this affair in a proper place. 

Tuesday evening. The account of the en- 
gagement between the Bull-dog and Friseur 
was premature. 

Wednesday morning. Another express is 
arrived, which brings news, that the Friseur 
had lost all her masts, and three hundred of 
her men, in the late engagement ; and that cap- 
tain Grim is come into harbour much shattered. 

Wednesday evening. We hear that the brave 
captain Grim, having expended his powder, 
proposed to enter the Frisevir sword in hand ; 
but that his lieutenant, the nephew of a certain 
nobleman, remonstrated against it. 

Thursday morning. We wait impatiently 
for a full account of the late engagement be- 
tween the Bvill-dog and Friseur. 

Thursday evening. It is said the order of 
the Bath will be sent to captain Grim. 

Friday morning. A certain Lord of the Ad- 
miralty has been heard to say of a certain cap- 
tain, that if he had done his duty, a certain 
French ship might have been taken. It was 
not thus that merit was rewarded in the days of 
Cromwell. 

Friday evening. There is certain informa- 
tion at the Admiralty, that the Friseur is 
taken, after a resistance of two horn's. 

Saturday morning. A letter from one of the 
gunners of the BuU-dog, mentions the taking of 
the Friseur, and attributes their success wholly 
to the bravery and resolution of captain Grim, 
who never owed any of his advancement to 
borough-jobbers, or any other corrupters of the 
people. 

Saturday evening. Captain Grim arrived at 
the Admiralty, with an account that he engag- 
ed the Friseur, a ship of equal force with his 
own, off Cape Finisterre, and took her, after 
an obstinate resistance, having killed one hun- 
dred and fifty of the French, with the loss of 
ninety five of his own naen. 



No. 6.] Saturday, June 3, 1758. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



In the time of public danger, it is every man' 
duty to withdraw his thoughts in some measure 
from his private interest, and employ part of 
his time for the general welfare. National con- 
duct ought to be the result of national wisdom, 
a plan formed by mature consideration and 



No. 8.] THE IDLER. 

diligent selectiot: Jut of all the schemes which 
may be offered, and all the information which 
can he procured. 

In a battle, every man should fight as if he 
was the single champion; in preparations for 
war, every man should think, as if the last event 
depended on his counsel. None can tell what 
discoveries are within his reach, or how much 
he may contribute to the public safety. 

Full of these considerations, 1 have carefully 
reviewed the process of the war, and find, what 
every other man has found, that we have hither- 
to added nothing to our military reputation: 
that at one time we have been beaten by ene- 
mies whom we did not see; and, at another, 
have avoided the sight of enemies lest we should 
be beaten. 

Whether our troops are defective in discipline 
or in courage, is not very useful to inquire ; they 
evidently want something necessary to success ; 
and he that shall supply that want will deserve 
well of his country. 

To learn of an enemy has always been ac- 
counted politic and honourable ; and, therefore, 
I hope it will raise no prejudice against my pro- 
ject, to confess that I bon*owed it from a 
Frenchman. 

When the Isle of Rhodes was, many cen- 
turies ago, in the hands of that military order 
now called the Knights of Malta, it was ravaged 
by a dragon, who inhabited a den under a rock, 
from which he issued forth when he was hungry 
or wanton, and without fear or mercy devoured 
men and beasts as they came in his way. Many 
councils were held, and many devices offered, 
for his destruction ; but as his back was armed 
with impenetrable scales, none would venture 
to attack him. At last Dudon, a French knight, 
undertook the deliverance of the island. From 
some place of security he took a view of the 
dragon, or, as a modern soldier would say, re- 
connoiired him, and observed that his belly was 
naked and vidnerable. Fie then returned home 
to take his arrangements; and, by a very exact 
imitation of nature, made a dragon of pasteboard, 
in the beUy of which he put beof and mutton, 
and accustomed two sturdy mastiffs to feed 
themselves by teai'ing their way to the concealed 
flesh. When his dogs were well practised in 
this method of plunder, he marched out with 
them at his heels, and showed them the dragon ; 
they I'ushed upon him in quest of their dinner ; 
D^idon battered his skull, while they lacerated 
his belly ; and neither his sting nor claws were 
able to defend him. 

Something like this might be practised in our 
present state. Let a fortification be raised on 
Salisbury- Plain, resembling Brest, or Toulon, 
or Paris itself, with all the usual preparation 
for defence : let the inclosure be filled with beef 
and ale ; let the soldiers from some proper emi- 
nence, see shirts waving upon lines, and here 



9 



and there a plump landlady hurrying about with 
pots in their hands. When they are sufficiently 
animated to advance, lead them in exact order, 
with fife and drum, to that side whence the 
wind blows, tiU they come within the scent of 
roast meat and tobacco. Contrive that they 
may approach the place fasting, about half an 
hour after dinner-time, assure them that there 
is no danger, and command an attack. 

If nobody within either moves or speaks, it is 
not unlikely that they may carry the place by 
storm ; but if a panic should seize them, it will 
be proper to defer the enterprise to a more 
hungry hour. When they have entered, let 
them fill their bellies and return to the camp. 

On the next day let the same place be shown 
them again, but with some additions of strength 
or terror. I cannot pretend to infonn our gen- 
erals through what gradations of danger they 
should train their men to fortitude. They best 
know what the soldiers and what themselves 
can bear. It will be proper that the war should 
every day varj* its appearance. Sometimes, as 
they mount the i-ampart, a cook may throw fat 
upon the fire, to accustom them to a sudden 
blaze ; and sometimes by the clatter of empty 
pots, they may be inured to formidable noises. 
But let it never be forgotten, that victory must 
repose with a fuU belly. 

In time it will be proper to bring our French 
prisoners from the coast, and place them upon 
the walls in martial order. At their first ap- 
pearance their hands must be tied, but they may 
be allowed to grin. In a month they may guard 
the place with their hands loosed, provided that 
on pain of death they be forbidden to strike. 

By this method our army will soon be brought 
to look an enemy in the face. But it has been 
lately observed, that fear is received by the ear 
as well as the eyes ; and the Indian war-cry is 
represented as too dreadful to be endured ; as a 
sound that will force the bravest veteran to drop 
his weapon, and desert his rank ; that will 
deafen his ear and chill his breast ; that will 
neither suffer him to hear orders or to feel 
shame, or retain anj' sensibility but the dread of 
death. 

That the savage clamours of naked barbarians 
should thus terrify troops disciplined to war, 
and ranged in array with arms in their hands, 
is surely strange. But this is no time to reason. 
I am of opinion, that by a proper mixture of 
asses, bulls, turkeys, geese, and tragedians, a 
noise might be procured equally horrid with the 
war-cry. When our men have been encouraged 
by frequent victories, nothing will remain but 
to qualify them for extreme danger, by a sudden 
concert of terrific vociferation. When they 
have endured this last trial, let them be led to 
action, as men who are no longer to be fright- 
ened ; as men who can bear at once the grimaces 
of the Gauls, and the bowl of llie Amcritans. 

r 



10 THE IDLER 

Nu. 0. 1 Saturdav, Juxe 10, 1759. 



[No. 9. 






TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



I have read you ; that is a favour few authors 
can boast of having received from me besides 
yourself. My intention in telling you of it is 
to inform you, that you have both pleased and 
angered me. Never did writer appear so delight- 
ful to me as you did vt^hen you adopted the 
name of the Idler. But what a falling-off was 
there when your first production Avas brought 
to light ! A natural, irresistible attachment to 
that favourite passion, idling, had led me to 
hope for indulgence from the Idler, but I find 
him a stranger to the title. 

What rules has he pi"oposed totally to unbrace 
the slackened nerve ; to shade the heavy eye of 
inattention ; to give the smooth feature and thp 
uncontracted muscle ; or procure insensibility to 
the whole animal composition ? 

These were some of the placid blessings I pro- 
mised myself the enjoyment of, when I com- 
mitted violence upon myself by mustering up 
all my strength to set about reading you ; but 1 
am disappointed in them all, and the stroke of 
eleven in the morning is still as ten'ible to me 
as before, and 1 find putting on my clothes still 
as painful and laborious. Oh that our climate 
would permit that original nakedness which the 
thrice happy Indians to this day enjoy ! How 
many unsolicitous hours should I bask away, 
warmed in bed by the sun's glorious beams, 
could I, like them, tumble from thence in a 
moment, when necessity obliges me to endure 
the torment of getting upon my legs ! 

But wherefore do I talk to you upon subjects 
of this delicate nature? you, who seem ignorant 
of the inexpressible charms of the elbow-chaii*, 
attended with a soft stool for the elevation of 
the feet ! Thus, vacant of thought, do I indulge 
the live-long day. 

You may define happiness as you please ; I 
embrace that opinion which makes it consist in 
the absence of pain. To reflect is pain ; to stir 
is pain ; therefore I never reflect or stir but 
when I c&nnot help it. Perhaps you will call 
my scheme of life indolence, and therefore 
think the Idler excused from taking any notice 
of me: but I have always looked upon indolence 
and idleness as the same ; and so de&ire you will i 
now and then, while you profess yourself of our [ 
fraternity, take some notice of me, and others \ 
in my situation, who think they have a right 
to your assistance ; or relinquish the name. 

You may publish, burn, or destroy this, just 
as you are in the humour ; it is ten to one but I 
forget that I wrote it before it reaches you. I j 
believe you may find a motto for it in Horace, ' 
tut I cannot reach him without getting out of j 



my chair; that is a sufficient reason for my not 
affixing any. — And being obliged to' sit upright 
to ring the bell for my servant to convey this to | \i 
the penny-post, if I slip the opportunity of his 
being now in the room, m^akes me break oil" 
abruptly. 

This correspondent, whoever he be, is not to 
be dismissed without some tokens of regard. 
Thei-e is no mark more certain of a genuine 
Idler than uneasiness without molestation, and 
complaint without a grievance. 

Yet my gratitude to the contributor of half 
a paper shall not wholly overpower my sincer- 
ity. I must inform you, that, with all his pre- 
tensions, he that calls for directions to be idle, 
is yet but in the rudiments of idleness, and has 
attained neither the practice nor theory of wast- 
ing life. The true nature of idleness he will 
know in time, by continuing to be idle. Virgil 
tells us of an impetuous and rapid being, that 
acquires strength by motion. The Idler ac- 
quires weight by lying still. 

The vis inertice, the quality of resisting all ex- 
ternal impulse, is hourly increasing ; the rest- 
less and troublesome faculties of attention and 
distinction, reflection on the past, and solicitude 
for the future, by a long indulgence of idleness, 
will, like tapers in unelastic air, be gradually 
extinguished ; and the officious lover, the vigi- 
lant soldier, the busy trader, may, by a judicious 
coinposure of his mind, sink into a state ap- 
proaching to that of brute matter ; in which ho, 
shall retain the consciousness of his own exist- 
ence, only by an obtuse langour and drowsy 
discontent. 

This is the lowest stage to which the favour- 
ites of idleness can descend; these regions of 
undelighted quiet can be entered by few. Of 
those that are prepared to sink down into their 
shade, some are roused into action by avarice or 
ambition, some are awakened by the voice of 
fame, some allured by the smile of beauty, and 
many withheld by the importunities of want. 
C)f all the enemies of idleness, want is the most 
formidable. Fame is soon found to be a sound, 
and love a dream ; avarice and ambition may 
be justly suspected of privy confederacies with 
idleness ; for when they have for a while pro- 
tected their votaries, they often deliver them up 
to end their lives under her dominion. "Want 
always struggles figair.st idleness, but Want 
herself is often overccme; and every hour 
shows the careful observer those who had rather 
live in ease than in plenty. 

So wide is the region of Idleness, and so 
powerful her influence. But she does not im- 
mediately confer all her gifts. My correspon- 
dent, who seems, with all his en'ors, worthy of 
advice, must be told, that he is calling too hasti- 
ly for the last effusion of total insensibility. 
Whatever he may have been traight by unskilful 



No. 10.] 



THE IDLER. 



1! 



Idlers to believe, labour is necessary in his ini- 
tiation to idleness. He that never labours may 
know the pains of idleness, but not the pleasure. 
The comfort is, that if he devotes himself to in- 
sensibility, he will daily lengthen the intervals 
of idleness, and shorten those of labour, till 
at last he will lie down to rest, and no longer 
distui'b the world or himself by buslle or com- 
petition. 

Thus I have endeavoured to give him that in- 
formation which, pei'haps, after all, he did not 
want : for a true Idler often calls for that which 
he knows is never to be had, and asks questions 
which he does not desire evei' to be answered. 



No. 10.] Saturday, Juke 17, 1758. 



Credulity, oi* confidence of opinion too great 
for the evidence from Avhich opinion is dei'ived, 
we find to be a general weakness imputed by 
erery sect and party to all others ; and, indeed, 
by every man to eveiy other man. 

Of all kinds of credulity, the most obstinate 
and wonderful is that of political zealots ; of 
men, who being numbered, they kno"w not how 
or why, in any of the parties that divide a state, 
resign the use of their own eyes and ears, and 
resolve to believe nothing that docs not favour 
those whom they profess to follow. 

The bigot of philosophy is seduced by author- 
ities which he has not fUways opportunities to 
examine, is entangled in systems by which tnrth 
and falsehood are inextricably complicated, or 
undertakes to talk on subjects which nature did 
not form him able to comprehend. 

The Cartesian, who denies that his horse feels 
the spur, or that the hare is afraid when the 
hounds approach her; the disciple of Mal- 
branche, who maintains that the man was not 
hurt by the bullet, which, according to vulgar 
apprehension, swept away his legs ; the follower 
of Berkeley, who, while he sits writing at his 
table, declares that he has neither table, paper, 
nor fingers ; have all the honour at least of be- 
ing deceived by fallacies not easily detected, and 
may plead that they did not forsake truth, but 
for appearances which they were not able to dis- 
tinguish from it. 

But the man who engages in a party has sel- 
dom to do with any thing remote or abstruse. The 
present state of things is before his eyes ; and, if 
he cannot be satisfied without retrospection, yet 
he seldom extends his views beyond the histori- 
cal events of the last century. All the know - 
ledge that he can want is within his attainment, 
and most of the arguments which he can hear 
are within his capacity. 

Yet so it is that an Idler meets every hour of 
his life Avith men who have difl^erent opinions 
upon every thing past, presont,and future; who 



deny the most notorious facts, contiadUt thu 
most cogent truths, and i)ersist in assoning to- 
day what they asserted yesterday, in defianse 
of evidence, and contempt of confutation. 

Two of my companions, Avho are grown old 
in idleness, are Tom Tempest and Jack Sneaker. 
Both of them consider themselves as neglect- 
ed by their parties, and therefore entitled to 
credit; for why should they favour ingratitude? 
They are both men of integi'ity, where no fac- 
tious interest is to be promoted ; and both lovers 
of truth, when they are not heated with politi- 
<;al debate. 

Tom Tempest is a steady friend to the hous* 
of Stuart. He can recount the prodigies that 
have appeared in the sky, and the calamities 
that have af?iicted the nation every year fiom 
the Revolution; and is of opinion, that, if the 
exiled family had continued to reign, there 
would have neither been worms in our ships, 
nor caterpillars in oui* trees. He wonders that 
the nation was not awakened by the hard frost 
to a revocation of the true king, and is hourly 
afraid that the whole island will be lost in the 
sea. He believes that king William burnt 
Whitehall that he might steal the furniture; 
and that Tillotson died an atheist. Of queen 
Anne he sj>eaks with more tenderness, owns 
that she meant well, and can tell by whom and 
why she was poisoned. In the succeeding reigns 
all has been corruption, m.ilice, and design. He 
believes that nothing ill has ever happened for 
these forty years by chance or error ; he holds 
that the battle of Dettingen was won by mis- 
take, and that of Fontenoy lost by contract ; that 
the Victory was sunk by a private order ; that 
Cornhill was fired by emissaries fi'om the coun- 
cil ; and the arch of Westminster-bridge was so 
contrived as to sink, on purpose that the nation 
might be put to charge. He considers the new 
road to Islington as an encroachment on libei*ty, 
and often asserts that broad wheel will be the ruin 
of England. 

Tom is generally vehement and noisy, but 
nevertheless has some secrets which he always 
communicates in a whisper. Many and many 
a time has Tom told me, in a corner, that oui 
miseries were almost at an end, and that we 
should see, in a month, another monarch on the 
throne ; the time elapses without a revolution ; 
Tom meets me again with new intelligence, the 
v/hole scheme is now settled, and we shall scf 
great events in another month. 

Jack Sneaker is a hearty adherent to the pre- 
sent establishment; he has known those who 
saw the bed into which the Pretender was con- 
veyed in a warming pan. He offen rejoices that 
the nation was not enslaved by the Irish. He 
believes that king William never lost a battle, 
and that if he had lived one year longer he would 
have conquered France. He hokls that Charles 
the First was a Fapist. He allows there were 



IS 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 11. 



some good mm in the reign of queen Anne, but 
the peace of Utrecht brouglit a blast upon the 
nation, and has been the cause of all the evil that 
■we have suffered to the present hour. He be- 
lieves that the scheme of the South Sea was well 
intended, but that it miscarried by the influence 
of France. He considers a standing army as the 
bulwark of liberty ; thinks us secured from cor- 
ruption by septennial parliaments ; relates how 
"we are enriched and strengthened by the elec- 
toral dominions, and declares that the public 
debt is a blessing to the nation. 

Yet, amidst all this prosperity, poor Jack is 
hourly disturbed by the dread of Popery. He 
wonders that some stricter laws are not made 
against Papists, and is sometimes afraid that 
they are busy with French gold among the 
bishops and judges. 

He cannot believe that the Nonjurors are so 
quiet for nothing ; they must certainly be form- 
ing some plot for the establishment of popery ; 
he does not think the present oath sufficiently 
binding, and wishes that some better security 
could be found for the succession of Hanover. 
He is zealous for the naturalization of foreign 
Protestants, and rejoiced at the admission of the 
Jews to the English privileges, because he 
thought a Jew would never be a Papist. 



k'»'»%'V'V%'»/«'V« 'W'V^ 



No. 11.") Saturday, June 24, 1758. 



It is commonly observed, that when two 
Englishmen meet, their first talk is of the 
weather ; they are in haste to tell each other, 
what each must already know, that it is hot or 
cold, bright or cloudy, windy or calm. 

There are, among the numerous lovers of sub- 
tilties and paradoxes, some who derive the civil 
institutions of every country from its climate, 
who impute freedom and slavery to the temper- 
ature of the air, can fix the meridian of vice and 
virtue, and tell at what degree of latitude we 
are to expect covu-age or timidity, knowledge or 
ignorance. 

From these dreams of idle speculation, a slight 
survey of life, and a little knowledge of history, 
is suflUcient to awaken any inquirer, whose am- 
bition of distinction has iiot overpowered his 
love of tinith. Forms of government are seldom 
the result of much deliberation ; they are framed 
by chance in popular assemblies, or in conquer- 
ed countries by despotic authority. Laws are 
often occasional, often capricious, made always 
by a few, and sometimes by a single voice. Na- 
tions have changed their characters ; slavery is 
now no where more patiently endured, than 
in countries once inhabited by the zealots of 
liberty. 

But Jiational customs can arise only from gen- 



eral agreement; they are not imposed, hut 
chosen, and are continued only by the continu- 
ance of their cause. An Englishman's notice 
of the weather, is the natural consequence of 
changeable skies and uncertain seasons. In 
many parts of the world, wet weather and dry 
are regularly expected at certain periods ; but 
in our island every man goes to sleep, unable to 
guess whether he shall behold in the morning 
a bright or cloudy atmosphere, whether his rest 
shall be lulled by a shower, or broken by a tem- 
pest. We therefore rejoice mutually at good 
weather, as at an escape from something that 
we feare-d j and mutually complain of bad, as of 
the loss of something that we hoped. Such is 
the reason of our practice ; and who shall treat 
it with contempt? Surely not the attendant on 
a court, whose business is to watch the looks of 
a being weak and foolish as himself, and whose 
vanity is, to recount the names of men who 
might drop into nothing, and leave no vacuity ; 
nor the proprietor of funds, who stops his ac- 
quaintance in the street to tell him of the loss of 
half-a-crown ; nor the inquirer after news, who 
fills his head with foreign events, and talks of 
skirmishes and sieges, of which no consequence 
will ever reach his hearers or himself. The 
weather is a nobler and more interesting subject ; 
it is the present state of the skies and of the 
earth, on which plenty and famine are suspend- 
ed, on which millions depend for the necessaries 
of life. 

The weather is frequently mentioned for an- 
other reason, less honourable to my dear coun- 
trymen. Our dispositions too frequently change 
with the colour of the sky ; and when we find 
ourselves cheerful and good-natured, we natur- 
ally pay our acknowledgements to the powers of 
sunshine ; or, if we sink into dulness and peev- 
ishness, look round the horizon for an excuse, 
and charge our discontent upon an easterly wind 
or a cloudy day. 

Surely nothing is more reproachful to a being 
endowed with reason, than to resign its powers 
to the influence of the air, and live in depen- 
dence on the weather and the wind, for the only 
blessings which nature has put into our power, 
tranquiUity and benevolence. To look up to the 
sky for the nutriment of ovir bodies, is the con- 
dition of nature ; to call upon the sun for peace 
and gayety, to deprecate the clouds lest sorrow 
should overwhelm us, is the cowardice of idle- 
ness, and idolatry of folly. 

Yet, even in this age of inquiry and knowledge, 
when superstition is driven away, and omens 
and prodigies have lost their terrors, we find 
this folly countenanced by frequent examples. 
Those that laugh at the portentous glare of a 
comet, and hear a crow with equal tranquillity 
from the right or left, wiU yet talk of times and 
situations proper for intellectual performances, 
will imagine the fancy exalted by vernal 



No. 12.] 



THE IDLER. 



18 



breezes, and the reason invigorated by a bright 
calm. 

If men who have given up themselves to fan- 
ciful credulity, would confine their conceits in 
their own minds, they might regulate their 
lives by the barometer, with inconvenience only 
to themselves; but to fill the world with ac- 
counts of intellects subject to ebb and flow, of 
one genius that awakened in the spring, and 
another that ripened in the autumn, of one 
mind expanded in the summer, and of another 
concentrated in the winter, is no less dangerous 
than to tell children of bugbears and goblins. 
Fear will find every house haunted ; and idle- 
ness will wait for ever for the moment of illum- 
ination. 

This distinction of seasons is produced only 
by imagination operating on luxury. To tem- 
perance every day is bright, and every hour is 
propitious to diligence. He that shall resolute- 
ly excite his facilities, or exert his virtues, will 
soon make himself superior to the seasons, and 
may set at defiance the morning mist, and the 
evening damp, the blasts of the east, and the 
clouds of the south. 

It was the boast of the Stoic philosophy, to 
make man unshaken by calamity, and undated 
by success; incorruptible by pleasure, and in- 
vulnei'able by pain; these are heights of wisdom 
which none ever attained, and to which few 
can aspii'e ; but there are lower degrees of con- 
stancy necessary to common virtue ; and eveiy 
man, however he may distrust himself in the 
extremes of good or evil, might at least struggle 
against the tyranny of the climate, and refuse 
to enslave his virtue or his reason to the most 
variable of all variations, the changes of the 
weather. 



k'V W%'«.'V'»^«^-V^'%'% «^ 'V% ^ 



No. 12.] Saturday, July 1, 1758. 



That every man is important in his own eyes, 
is a position of which we all, either voluntarily 
or unwarily, at least once an hour confess the 
truth; and it will unavoidably follow, that 
every man believes himself important to the 
\^ublic. 

The right which this importance gives us to 
general notice and visible distinction, is one of 
those disputable privileges which we have not 
always courage to assert, and which we there- 
fore suffer to lie dormant, till some elation of 
mind, or vicissitude of fortune, incites us to de- 
clare our pretensions, and enforce our demands. 
And hopeless as the claim of vulgar characters 
may seem to the supercilious and severe, there 
are few who do not at one time or other endea- 
vour to step forward beyond their rank, who do 
not make some struggles for fame, and show 



that they think all other conveniences and de- 
lights imperfectly enjoyed without a name. 

To get a name can happen but to few. A 
name, even in the most commercial nation, is 
one of the few things which cannot be bought. 
It is the free gift of mankind, which must be 
deserved before it will be granted, and is at last 
unwUlingly bestowed. But this unwillingness 
only increases desire in him who believes his 
merit sufficient to overcome it. 

There is a particular period of life in which 
this fondness for a name seems principally to 
predominate in both sexes. Scarce any coupk 
comes together but the nuptials are declared in 
the newspapers with encomiums on each party. 
Many an eye, ranging over the page with eager 
curiosity in quest of statesmen and heroes, is 
stopped by a marriage celebrated between Mr. 
Buckram, an eminent salesman in Threadnee- 
dle-street, and Miss Dolly Juniper, the only 
daughter of an eminent distiller of the parish of 
St. Giles's in the Fields, a young lady adorned 
with every accomplishment that can give happi- 
ness to the married state. Or we are told 
amidst our impatience for the event of a battle, 
that on a certain day Mr. Winker, a tide-waiter 
at Yarmouth, was married t-o Mrs. Cackle, a 
widow lady of great accomplishments ; and that 
as soon as the ceremony was performed they set 
out in a post chaise for Yarmouth. 

Many are the inquiries which such intelli- 
gence must undoubtedly raise, but nothing in 
the world is lasting. When the reader has con- 
templated with envy, or with gladness, the feli- 
city of Mr. Buckram and Mr. Winker, and ran- 
sacked his memory for the names of Juniper 
and Cackle, his attention is diverted to other 
thoughts, by finding that Mirza will not cover 
this season ; or that a spaniel has been lost or 
stolen, that answers to the name of Ranger. 

Whence it arises that on the day of marriage 
all agi'ee to call thus openly for honours, I am 
not able to discover. Some, perhaps, think it 
kind, by a public declaration, to put an end to 
the hopes of rivalry and the fears of jealousy, to 
let parents know that they may set their daugh- 
ters at liberty whom they have locked up for 
fear of the bridegroom, or to dismiss to their 
counters and their offices tlie amorous youths 
that had been used to hover round the dwelling 
of the bride. 

These connubial praises may have another 
cause. It may be the intention of the husband 
and wife to dignify themselves in the eyes of 
each other, and, according to their different 
tempers or expectations, to win affection, or 
enforce respect. 

It was said of the family of Lucas that it 
was noble, for all tJie brothers were valiant, and 
all the sisters icere virtnous. What would a 
stranger say of the English nation, in which, 
on the day of marriage, all the men are eminent^ 



u 



THE IDLER- 



[No. 15. 



and all the women bcaulifid, accomplished, and 
rick ? 

How long the wife will be persuaded of the 
eminence of her husband, or the husband con- 
tinue to believe that his wife has the qualities 
required to make marrijige haj)py, may reason- 
ably be questioned. I am afraid iliat much time 
seldom passes before each is convinced that 
pi-aises are fallacious, and jxirticuliU'ly those 
praises which we confer upon ourseilves. 

I should, therefore, think that this custom 
might be omitted without any loss to the com- 
munity ; and that the sons and daughters of 
lanes and alleys might go hereafter to the next 
church, with no witnesses of their worth or 
happiness but their parents and their friends ; 
but if they cannot be happy on their bridal day 
without some gratification of their vanity, I 
hope they will be willing to encx)urage a friend 
of mine who proposes to devote his jwwers to 
their service. 

Mr. Settle, a man whose eminence was once 
allowed by the eminent, and whose accomplish- 
meoits were confessed by the accomplished, in the 
latter part of a long life supported himself by an 
uncommon expedient. He had a standing elegy 
and epithalamium, of which only the first and 
last leaves were varied occasionally, and the in- 
termediate pages were, hy general terms, left 
applicable alike to every character. When any 
marriage became known, Settle ran to the bride- 
groom with his epithalamium; and when he 
heard of any death, ran to the heir with his 
elegy. 

Who can think himself disgraced by a trade 
that was practised so long by the rival of Dry- 
den, by the poet whose Kmpress of Morocco 
was played before princes by ladies of the court ? 

My friend purposes to open an office in the 
Fleet for matrimonial panegyrics, and will ac- 
commodate all with praise who think their own 
powers of expression inadequate to their merit. 
He will sell any man or woman the virtue or 
qualification which is most fashionable or most 
desired ; but desires his customers to remember, 
that he sets beauty at the highest price, and 
riches at the next ; and if he be well paid, throws 
in virtue for nothing. 



No. 13.1 Saturday, July 8, 1758. 



TO THE IDLER. 
Dear Mr. Idler, 

Though few men of prudence are much in- 
clined to interpose in disputes between man and 
wife, who commonly make peace at the expense 
of the arbitrator, yet I Avill venture to lay be- 
fore you a controversy, by which the quiet of 



my house has been long distuibcd, and which, * ^ 
unless you can decide it, is likely to produce 
lasting evils, and embitter those hours which 
nature seems to have appropriated to tenderness 
and repose. 

I married a wife with no great fortune, but 
of a family remarkable for domestic prudence, 
and elegant frugality. I lived with her at ease, 
if not with happiness, and seldom hud any rea- 
son of complaint. The house was always clean,, 
the servants very active and regular, dinner was 
on the table every day at the same minute, and 
the ladies of the neighbom-hood were frightened 
when I invited their Ifusbands, lest their own 
economy should be loss esteemed. 

During this gentle lapse of Hie my dear 
brought me three daughters. I wished for a 
son, to continue the family ; but my wife often 
tells me, that boys are dirty things, and are al- 
ways troublesome in a house j and declares that 
she has hated the sight of them ever since she 
saw lady P'ondle's eldest son ride over a carpet 
with his hobby-horse all mire. 

I did not much attend to her opinion, but 
knew that girls could not be made boys ; and 
therefore composed myself to bear what I could 
not remedy, and resolved to bestow that care on 
my daughters to which only the sons are com- 
monly thought entitled. 

But my wife's notions of education differ 
widely from mine. She is an irreconcileable 
enemy to idleness, and considers evei*y state of 
life as idleness, in which the liands are not em- 
ployed, or some art acquired, by which she 
thinks money may be got or saved. 

In pursuance of this principle, she calls up 
her daughters at a certain hour, and appoints 
them a task of needlework to be performed be- 
fore breakfast. They are confined in a garret, 
which has its window in the roof, both because 
the work is best done at a skylight, and because 
children are apt to lose time by looking about 
them. 

They bring down their work to breakfast, 
and as they deserve are commended or reproved ; 
they are then sent up with a new task till din- 
ner ; if no company is expected, their mother 
sits with them the whole afternoon, to direct 
their operations, and to draw patterns, and is 
sometimes denied to her nearest relations, when 
she is engaged in teaching them a new stitch. 

By this continual exercise of their diligence, 
she has obtained a very considerable number of 
laborious performances. We have twice as- 
many fire-screens as chimneys, and three flour- 
ished quilts for every bed. Half the rooms are 
adorned with a kind of sulile pictures, which imi- 
tate tapestry. But all their work is not set out 
to show ; she has boxes filled with knit garters 
and braided shoes. She has twenty covers for 
side-saddles embroidered with silver flowers, 
and has curtains wrought with gold in various 



No. 14-.] 



THE IDLER. 



15 



figures, which she resolves some time or other 
to hang up. All these she displays to her com- 
pany whenevei' she is elate with merit, and 
eager for praise ; and amidst the praises which 
her friends and herself bestow upon her merit, 
she never fails to turn to me, and ask what all 
these would cost, if I had been to buy them. 

I sometimes venture to tell her that many of 
the ornaments are superfluous ; that what is done 
with so much labour might have been supplied 
by a very easy purchase ; that the work is not 
always worth the materials ; and that I know 
not why the children should be persecuted with 
useless tasks, or obliged to make shoes that are 
never worn. She answers with a look of con- 
tempt, that men never care how money goes, 
and proceeds to tell of a dozen new chairs for 
which she is contriving covers, and of a couch 
which she intends to stand as a monument of 
needlework. 

In the meantime the girls grow up in to':al 
ignorance of every thing past, present, and fu- 
tm-e. Molly asked me the other day, whether 
Ireland was in France, and was ordei«ed by her 
mother to mind her hem. Kitty knows not, 
at sixteen, the difference between a protestant 
and a papist, because she has been employed 
three years in filling a side of a closet with a 
hanging that is to represent Cranmer in the 
flames. And Dolly, my eldest girl, is now un- 
able to read a chapter in the Bible, having spent 
all the time, which other children pass at 
school, in working the interview between Solo- 
mon and the queen of Sheba. 

About a month ago Tent and Turkey-stitch 
seemed at a stand ; my wife knew not what 
new work to introduce ; I ventured to propose 
that the girls should now learn to read and 
write, and mentioned the necessity of a little 
arithmetic; bnt, unhappily, my wife has dis- 
covered that linen weai's out, and has bought 
the girls three little wheels, that they may spin 
huckaback for the servants' table. I remon- 
strated, that with larger wheels they might 
despatch in an hour what must now cost them 
a day ; but she told me, with irresistible 
authority, that any business is better than idle- 
ness; that when these wheels are set upon a 
table, with mats under them, they will turn 
without noise and keep the girls upright ; that 
great wheels are not fit for gentlewomen ; and 
that with these, small as they are^ she does 
not doubt but that the three girls, if they are 
kept close, will spin every year as much cloth 
as would cost five pounds if one wore to buy it. 



>.V-V%%'V^'V^> 



No. 141 Saturday, July 15, 1758. 



When Diogenes received a visit in his tub from 
Alexander the Great, and was asked, according 



to the ancient forms of royal courtesy, what 
petition he had to offer ; I have nothing, said he, 
to ask, but that you would remove to the other side, 
that you may not, by intercqUing the sunshine, 
take from me what you cannot give. 

Such was the demand of Diogenes from the 
greatest monarch of the earth, which those, 
who have less power than Alexander, may, 
with yet more propriety, apply to themselves. 
He that does much good, may be allowed to do 
sometimes a little hai'm. But if the oppor- 
tunities of beneficence be denied by fortune, in- 
nocence should at least be vigilantly preserved. 

It is well known that time once past never 
returns ; and that the moment which is lost, is 
lost for ever. Time, therefore, ouglit, above 
all other kinds of property, to be free from 
invasion ; and yet there is no man ^vho does 
not claim the power of wasting that time which 
is the right of others. 

This usurpation is so general, that a very 
small part of tlie year is spent by choice ; 
scarcely any thing is done when it is intended, 
or obtained when it is desired. Life is contin- 
ually ravaged by invaders ; one steals away an 
hour, and another a day : one conceals the rob- 
bery by hurrying us into business, another by 
lulling us with amusement; the depredation is 
continued through a thousand vicissitudes of 
tumult and tranquillity, till^ having lost all* 
we can lose no more. 

This waste of the lives of men has been very 
frequently charged upon the Great, whose fol- 
lowers linger from year to year in expectations, 
and die at last with petitions in their hands. 
Those who raise envy will easily incur censure. 
I know not whether statesmen and patrons do 
not suffer more reproaches than they deserve, 
and may not rather themselves complain, that 
they are given up a prey to pretensions with- 
out merit, and to importunity without shame. 

The truth is, that the inconveniences of at- 
tendance are more lamented than felt. To tlie 
greater number solicitation is its own reward. 
To be seen in good company, to talk of famili- 
arities with men of power, to be able to tell tlie 
freshest news, to gratify an inferior circle with 
predictions of increase or decline of favour, and 
to be regarded as a candidate for high offices, 
are compensations more than. equivalent to the 
delay of favours, which, perhaps, he that begs 
them h.as hardly confidence to expect. 

A man, conspicuous in a high station, who 
multiplies hopes that he may multiply depen- 
dents, may be considered as a beast of prey, 
justly dreaded, but easily avoided ; his den is 
known, and they who would not be devoured, 
need not approach it. The great danger of the 
waste of time is from caterpillars and moths, 
who are not resisted, because they are not feared, 
and who work on with unheeded mischiefs, and 
Invisible encroachments. 



16 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 15. 



He whose rank or merit procnres him tlie 
notice of mankind, must give up himself, in a 
g:reat measure, to the convenience or humour of 
those who surround him. Every man who is 
sick of himself will fly to him for relief; he 
that wants to speak wiU require him to hear ; 
Ind he that wants to hear will expect him 
to speak. Hour passes after hour, the noon 
succeeds to morning, and the evening to noon, 
while a thousand objects are forced upon his at- 
tention, which he rejects as fast as they are of- 
fered, but which the custom of the world re- 
quires to be received with appearance of regard. 

If we will have the kindness of others, we 
must endure their follies. He who cannot per- 
suade himself to withdraw from society, must 
be content to pay a tribute of his time to a mul- 
titude of tyrants ; to the loiterer, who makes ap- 
pointments which he never keeps ; to the consul- 
ter who asks advice which he never takes ; to the 
boaster, who blusters only to be praised ; to the 
complainer, who whines only to be pitied ; to the 
projector, whose happiness is to entertain his 
friends with expectations which all but himself 
know to be vain ; to the economist, who tells of 
bargains and settlements ; to the politician, who 
predicts the fate of battles and breach of alli- 
ances ; to the usurer, who compares the differ- 
ent funds ; and to the talker, who talks only 
because he loves to be talking. 

To put every man in possession of his own 
time, and rescue the day from the succession of 
usurpers, is beyond my power, and beyond my 
hope. Yet, perhaps, some stop might be put to 
this unmerciful persecution, if all would seri- 
ously reflect, that whoever pays a visit that is 
not desired, or talks longer than the hearer is 
willing to attend, is guilty of an injury which 
he cannot repair, and takes away that which he 
cannot give. 



No. 16.] Saturday, July 22, 1758. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



X HAVE the misfortune to be a man of business ; 
that, you wiU say, is a most grievous one ; but 
what makes it the more so to me is, that my 
wife has nothing to do; at least she had too 
good an education, and the prospect of too good 
a fortune in reversion when I married her, to 
think of employing herself either in my shop 
affairs, or the management of my family. 

Her time, you know, as well as my own, 
must be filled up some way or other. For my 
part, I have enough to mind in weighing my 
goods out, and waiting on my customers; but 
my wife, though she could be of as much use as 
a shopman to me, if she would put her hand to 



a ' 



it, is now only in my way. She walks all the 
morning sauntering about the shop, with her 
arms through her pocket-holes, or stands gaping 
at the door-sill, and looking at every person that 
passes by. She is continually asking me 
thousand frivolous questions about every custo- 
mer that comes in and goes out ; and all the 
while that I am entering any thing in my day- 
book, she is lolling over the counter, and staring 
at it, as if I was only scribbling or drawing 
figures for her amusement. Sometimes, indeed, 
she will take a needle ; but as she always works 
at the door, or in the middle of the shop, she 
has 80 many interruptions, that she is longer 
hemming a towel, or darning a stocking, thaa 
I am in breaking forty loaves of sugar, and 
making it up into pounds. 

In the afternoon I am sure, likewise, to 
have her company, except she is called upon 
by some of her acquaintance : and then, as 
we let out all the upper part of our house, 
and have only a little room backwards for our- 
selves, they either keep such a chattering, or 
else are calling out every moment to me, that I 
cannot mind my business for them. 

My wife, I am sure, might do all the little 
matters our family requires ; and I could wish 
that she would employ herself in them ; but, in- 
stead of that, we have a girl to do the work, 
and look after a little boy about two years old, 
which I may fairly say is the mother's own 
child. The brat must be humoured in every 
thing : he is, therefore, suffered constantly to 
play in the shop, pull aU the goods about, and 
clamber up the shelves to get at the plums and 
sugar. I dare not correct him ; because, if I 
did, I should have wife and maid both upon me 
at once. As to the latter, she is as lazy and 
sluttish as her mistress; and because the com- 
plains she has too much work, we can scarcely 
get her to do any thing at all ; nay, what is 
worse than that, 1 am afraid she is hardly 
honest ; and as she is entrusted to buy in all our 
provisions, the jade, I am sure, makes a market- 
penny out of every article. 

But to return to my deary. — The evenings 
are the only time, when it is fine weather, that 
I am left to myself; for then she generally takes 
the child out to give it milk in the park. When 
she comes home again she is so fatigued with 
walking, that she cannot stir from her chair ; 
and it is an hour after shop is shut, before I 
can get a bit of supper, while the maid is taken 
up in undressing and putting the child to bed. 

But you will pity me much more when I tell 
you the manner in which we generally pass our 
Sundays. In the morning she is commonly 
too ill to dress herself to go to church ; she f 
therefore, never gets up tiU noon ; and what t] 
is still more vexatious, keeps me in bed with 
her, when I ought to be busily engaged in better 
emplojTnent. It is well if she can get her things 



No. 16.] THE IDLER 

on by dinner-time ; and when that is over I am 
sure to be dragged out by her, either to Georgia, 
or Hornsey Wood, or the White- Conduit House.' 
Yet even these near excui'sions are so very fa- 
tiguing to her, that, besides what it costs me in 
tea and hot rolls, and syllabubs, and cakes for 
the boy, I am frequently forced to take a hack- 
ney-coach, or drive them home in a one-horse 
chair. At other times, as my wife is rather of 
the fattest, and a very poor walker, besides bear- 
ing her whole weight upon my ann, 1 am obliged 
to caiTy the child myself. 

Thus, Sir, does she constantly drawl out her 
time, without either profit or satisfaction ; and, 
while I see my neighbours' wives helping in the 
shop, and almost earning as much as their hus- 
bands, I have the mortification to find, that 
mine is nothing but a dead weight upon me. 
'n short, I do not know any greater misfortune 
can happen to a plain hard-working tradesman, 
as I am, than to be joined to such a woman, who 
is rather a clog than a help-mate to him. 

I am, Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

Zachary Treacle. 



17 



No. 16.] Saturday, July 29, 1758. 



I PAID a visit yesterday to my old friend Ned 
Drugget, at his country lodgings. Ned began 
trade with a very small fortune ; he took a small 
house in an obscure street, and for some years 
dealt only in remnants. Knowing that light 
gains make a heavy jmrse, he was content with mo- 
derate profit ; having observed or heard the effects 
of civility, he bowed down to the counter-edge 
at the entrance and departure of every customer, 
listened without impatience to the objections of 
the ignorant, and refused Avithout resentment 
the offers of the penurious. His only recreation 
was, to stand at his own door and look into the 
street. His dinner was sent him from a neigh- 
bouring alehouse, and he opened and shut the 
shop at a certain hour Avith his own hands. 

His reputation soon extended from one end 
of the street to the other ; and Mr. Drugget's 
exemplary conduct was recommended by eveiy 
master to his apprentice, and by every father to 
his son. Ned was not only considered as a 
thriving tradei", but as a man of elegance and 
politeness, for he was remarkably neat in his 
dress, and would wear his coat threadbaj'e with- 
out spotting it ; his hat was always brushed, his 
shoes glossy, his wig nicely curled, and his 
stockings without a Avi'inkle. With such quali- 
fications it was not very difficult for him to gain 
the heart of P»Iiss Comfit, the only daughter of 
M% Comfit the confectioner. 



Ned is one of those whose happiness marriage 
has increased. His wife had the same disposi- 
tion with himself; and his method of life was 
very little changed, except that he dismissed the 
lodgers from the first floor, and took the whole 
house into his own hands. 

He had already, by his parsimony, accumu- 
lated a considerable sum, to which the fortune 
of his wife was now added. From this time 
he began to grasp at greater acquisitions, and 
was always ready with money in his hand, to 
pick up the refuse of a sale, or to buy the stock 
of a trader svho retired from business. He soon 
added his parlour to his shop, and was obliged a 
few months afterwards, to hire a warehouse. 

He had now a shop splendidly and copiously 
furnished with every thing that time had injur- 
ed, or fashion had degraded, with fragments of 
tissues, odd yards of brocade, vast bales of fad- 
ed silk, and innumerable boxes of antiquated 
ribbons. His shop was soon celebrated through 
all quarters of the tOAvn, and frequented by eveiy 
form of ostentatious poverty. Every maid, 
whose misfortune it was to be taller than her 
lady, matched her gown at Mr. Drugget's ; and 
many a maiden who had passed a winter with 
her aunt in London, dazzled the rustics, at her 
return, with cheap finery which Drugget had 
supplied. His shop was often visited in a morn- 
ing by ladies who left their coaches- in the next 
street, and crept through the alley in linea 
gowns. Drugget knows the rank of his cus- 
tomers by their bashfulness ; and when he finds 
them unwilling to be seen, invites them up stairs, 
or retires with them to the back window. 

I rejoiced at the increasing prosperity of my 
friend, and imagined that as he gi-ew rich, he 
was growing happy. His mind has partaken 
the enlargement of his fortune. When I stepped 
in for the first five yeai-s, 1 Avas Avelcomed only 
Avith a shake of the hand ; in the next period of 
his life, he beckoned across the way for a pot of 
beer ; but for six years past, he invited me to 
dinner ; and if he bespeaks me the day before, 
never fails to regale me with a fillet of A'eal. 

His riches neither made him uncivil nor negli- 
gent; he rose at the same hour, attended with 
the same assiduity, and bowed Avith the same 
gentleness. But for some years he has been 
much inclined to talk of the fatigues of business, 
and the confinement of a shop, and to Avish that 
he had been so happy as to have renewed his 
uncle's lease of a fann, that he might have lived 
without noise and hurry, in a pure air, in the 
artless society of honest villagers, and the con- 
templation of the works of nature. 

I scon discovered the cause of my friend's 
philosophy. He thought himself groAvn rich 
enough to have a lodging in the country, like 
the mercers on Ludgate-hill, and was resolved 
to enjoy himself in tlie decline of life. This 
Avas a 1 evolution not to be nx94e suddenly. H« 
D 



^8 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 17. 



♦ftlkcd three years of the pleasures of the coun- 
try, hut p.isscd CA'ery niglit over his own shop. 
But at last he resolved to be happy, and Iiired a 
lodging in the country, that Jie may steal some 
hours in the week from business ; for, says he, 
when a man advances in life, he loves to entertain 
himself sometimes with his oum thovghts. 

I was invited to this seat of quiet and con- 
templation among those whom Mr. Drugget con- 
siders as his most reputable friends, and desires 
to make the first witnesses of his elevation to 
the highest dignities of a shopkeeper. I found 
him at Islington, in a room which overlooked 
the high road, amusing himself with I<M)kirig 
through the Avindow, Avhich the clouds of dust 
would not suffer him to open. He embraced 
me, told me I was welcome into the country, 
and asked me, if I did not feel myself refreshed. 
He then desired that dinner might be hastened, 
for fresh air always sharpened his appetite, and 
ordered me a toast and a glass of wine after my 
walk. He told me much of the pleasure he 
found in retirement, and wondered what had 
kept him so long out of the country. After 
dinner, company came in, and Mr. Drugget 
again repeated the praises of the country, re- 
t,ommended the pleasures of meditation, and 
told them, that he had been all the morning at 
the window, counting the can-iages as they 
passed before him. 



No. 17.] Saturday, Aug. 5, 1758. 



The rainy weather, which has continued the 
last m^onth, is said to have given great disturb- 
ance to the inspectors of barometers. The ora- 
culous glasses have deceived their votaries; 
shower has succeeded shower, though they pre- 
dicted svmshine and dry skies ; and by fatal con- 
fidence in these fallacious promises, many coats 
have lost their gloss, and many curls have been 
moistened to flaccidity. 

This is one of the distresses to which mortals 
subject themselves by the pride of speculation. 
I had no part in this learned disappointment, 
who am content to credit my senses, and to be- 
lieve that rain will fall when the air blackens, 
and that the weather will be dry when the sun 
is bright. My caution indeed does not always 
preserve me fro ..n a shower. To be Avet, may 
happen to the genuine Idler ; but to be wet in 
opposition to theory, can befall only the Idler 
that pretends to be busy. Of those that spin 
Hit life in trifles, and die without a memorial, 
many flatter themselves with high opinions of 
their own importance, and imagine that they 
are every day adding some improvement to hu- 
man life. To be idle and to be poor, have al- 
ways been reproaches, and therefore every man 



endeavours, with his utmost care, to hide hi* 
poverty from others, and liis idleness from him- 
self. 

Among those v/liom I never could persuade 
rank themselves with Idlers, and who speak 
with indignation of my morning sleeps and noc- 
turnal rambles, one passes the day in catching 
spiders, that he may count their eyes with a 
microscoi>e ; another erects his head, and exhi- 
bits the dust of a marigold separated from the 
flower with a dexterity worthy of Leuwenhoeck 
himself. Some turn the wheel of electricity . 
some suspend rings to a loadstone, and lind 
that what tiiey did yesterday they can do again 
to-day. S(Jine register the changes of the wind, 
and die fully convinced that the wind is change- 
able. 

There are men yet more profound, who have 
heard that two colourless liquors may produce a 
colour by union, and that two cold bodies will 
gi'ow hot if they are mingled; they mingle 
them, and produce the effect expected, say it is 
strange, and mingle them again. 

The Idlers that sport only with inanimate na- 
ture may claim some indulgence; if they are 
useless, they are still innocent; but there are 
others, whom I know not how to mention with- 
out more emotion than my love of quiet Avili- 
ingly admits. Among the inferior professors 
of medical knowledge, is a race of Avretches, 
whose liA'es are only varied by A'arieties of 
cruelty; whose favounte amusement is, to • 
nail dogs to tables and open them alive ; to try j| 
hoAv long life may be continued in various de- 
gi'ees of mutilation, or with the excision or 
laceration of the vital parts; to examine 
whethtr burning irons are felt more acutely by 
the bone or tendon ; and whether the more 
lasting agonies are produced by poison forced 
into the mouth, or injected into the veins. 

It is not Avithout reluctance that I offend the 
sensibility of the tender mind Avith images like 
these. If such cruelties were not practised, it 
were to be desired that they should not be con- 
ceived ; but, since they are published every day 1 
with ostentation, let me be allowed once to I 
mention them, since I mention them with ab- 
hoiTcnce. 

Mead has invidiously remarked of Woodward, 
that he gathered, shells and stones, and would 
pass for a philosopher. With pretensions much 
less reasonable, the anatomical novice tears out 
the living bowels of an animal, and styles him- 
self physician, prepares himself by familiar 
cruelty for that profession Avhich he is to exer- 
cise upon the tender and the helpless, upon fee- 
ble bodies and broken minds, and by which he 
has opportunities to extend his arts of toi-ture^ 
and continue those experiments upon infancy 
and age, Avhich he has hitherto tried upon cats 
and dogs. 

What is alleged in defence of these hateful 



No. 18-2 



THE IDLER. 



1^ 



practices, every one knows j but the truth is, 
that by knives, flj e, and poison, knoAvledge is not 
always sought, and is very seldom attained. 
The experiments that have been tried, are tried 
again ; he that burned an animal with ii-ons yes- 
terday, will be willing to amuse himself with 
burning another to-morrow. I know not, that 
by living dissections any discovery has been 
made by which a single malady is more easily 
«ured. And if the knowledge of physiology has 
been somewhat increased, he surely buys know- 
ledge dear, who learns the use of the lacteals at 
the expense of his humanity. It is time that 
universal resentment should arise against these 
horrid operations, which tend to harden the 
heart, extinguish those sensations which give 
man confidence in man, and make tlie physician 
more dreadful than the gout or stone. 



No. 18.] Satcrdat, Aug. 12, 1758. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



It commonly happens to him who endeavours 
to obtain distinction by ridicule, or censui'e, that 
he teaches others to practise his own arts against 
himself; and that, after a short enjoyment of 
the applause paid to his sagacity, or of the mirth 
excited by his wit, he is doomed to suffer the 
same severities of scrutiny, to hear inquiry de- 
tecting his faults, and exaggeration sporting with 
his failings. 

The natural discontent of inferiority will sel- 
dom fail to operate in some degi-ee of malice 
against him who professes to superintend the 
conduct of others, especially if he seats himself 
uncalled in the chair of judicature, and exercises 
authority by his own commission. 

You cannot, therefore, wonder that your ob- 
servations on human folly, if they produce 
Iftughter at one time, awaken criticism at ano- 
ther ; and that among the numbers whom you 
have taught to scoff at the retirement of Drug- 
g'et, there is one who offers his apology. 

The mistake of your old friend is by no means 
peculiar. The public pleasures of far the greater 
part of mankind are counterfeit. Very few 
carry their philosophy to places of diversion, or 
ai'e very careful to analyse their enjoyments. The 
genei'al condition of life is so full of miserj', that 
we are glad to catch delight without inquiring 
whence it comes, or by what power it is be- 
stowed. 

The mind is seldom quickened to very vigor- 
ous operations but by pain, or the dread of pain. 
We do not disturb ourselves with the detection 
of fallacies which do us no harm, nor willingly 
decline a pleasing effect to investigate its cause. 
lie that is happy, by whatever means, desires 



■ nothing bat the continuance of hav)piness, and 
is no more solicitous to distribute his sensations 
into their proper species, than the common gazer 
on the beauties of the spring to separate light in- 
to its original rays. 

Pleasure is therefore seldom such as it appears 
to others, nor often such as we represent it to 
ourselves. Of the ladies that sparkle at a musi- 
cal performance, a very small number has any 
quick sensibility of harmonious sounds. But 
every one that goes has her pleasure. She has 
tlie pleasure of wearing fine clothes, and of shoT\'- 
ing them, of outshining those whom she suspects 
to envy her; she has the pleasure of appearing 
among other ladies in a place whither the race 
of meaner mortals seldom intrudes, and of re- 
flecting that, in the conversations of the next 
morning, her name will be mentioned among 
those that sat in the first row; she has the pleas- 
ure of returning courtesies; or refusing to return 
them, of receiving compliments with civility, or 
I'ejecting them with disdain. She has the pleas- 
ure of meeting some of her acquaintance, of 
guessing why the rest are absent, and of telling 
them tliat she saw the opera, on pretence of in- 
quiring why they would miss it. She has the 
pleasure of being supposed to be pleased with a 
refined amusement, and of hoping to be num- 
bered among the votaresses of harmony. She 
has the pleasure of escaping for two hours the 
superiority of a sister, or the control of a hus- 
band ; and from all these pleasures she concludes, 
that heavenly music is the balm of life. 

All assemblies of gayety are brought together 
by motives of the same kind. The theatre is 
not filled with those that know or regard the 
skill of the actor, nor the ball-room by those 
who dance, or attend to the dancers. To all 
places of general resort, where the standard of 
pleasure is erected, we run with equal eagerness, 
or appeai'ance of eagerness, for very different 
reasons. One goes that he may say he has been 
there, another because he never misses. This 
man goes to try what he can find, and that to 
discover what others find. "Whatever diversion 
is costly will be frequented by those who desire 
to be thought rich ; and whatever has, by any 
accident become fashionable, easily continues its 
reputation, because every one is ashamed of not 
partaking it. 

To every place of entertainment we go with 
expectation and desire of being pleased; we 
meet others who are brought by the same mo- 
tives ; no one will be the first to own the disap- 
pointment ; one face reflects the smile of an- 
other, till each believes the rest delighted, and 
endeavours to catch and transmit the circulating 
rapture. In time all are deceived by the cheat 
to which all contribute. The fiction of hapi)i- 
ness is propagated by every tongue, and confinn- 
ed by every look, till at last all profess the j<»y 
which they do not feel, consent to yield to tha 



so 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 19. 



general delusion ; and when the voluntary dream 
is at an end, lament that bliss is of so short a 
duration. i 

If Drugget pretended to jjleasurcs of which 
he had no perception, or boasted of one amuse- ! 
ment where he was indulging another, what did ', 
he which is not done by all those who read his 1 
story? of whom some pretend delight in con- 
versation, only because they dare not be alone ; ' 
some praise the quiet of solitude, because they | 
are envious of sense, and impatient of folly ; and 
some gratify their pride, by writing characters 
which expose the vanity of life. 

I am. Sir, 

Your humble Servant. 



No. 19.] Saturday, Aug. 19, 175a 



Some of those ancient sages that have exercised 
their abilities in the inquiry after the supreme 
good, have been of opinion, that the highest de- 
gree of earthly happiness is quiet ; a calm re- 
pose both of mind and body, undisturbed by the 
sight of folly or the noise of business, the tumults 
of public commotion, or the agitations of private 
interest ; a state in which the mind has no other 
employment, but to obsei*ve and regulate her 
own motions, to trace thought from thought, 
combine one image with another, raise systems 
of science, and form theories of virtue. 

To the scheme of these solitary speculatists, 
it has been justly objected, that if they are happy, 
they are happy only by being useless. That 
mankind is one vast republic, where every in- 
dividual receives many benefits from the labours 
of others, which, by labouring in his turn for 
others, he is obliged to repay ; and that where 
the united efforts of all are not able to exempt all 
from misery, none have a right to withdraw 
from their task of vigilance, or to be indulged in 
idle wisdom or solitary pleasures. 

It is common for controvertists, in the heat of 
disputation, to add one position to another till 
they reach the extremities of knowledge, where 
truth and falsehood lose their distinction. Their 
admirers follow them to the brink of absurdity, 
and then start back from each side towards tlie 
middle point. So it has happened in this great 
disquisition. Many perceive alike the force of 
the contrary arguments, find quiet shameful, 
and business dangerous ; and therefore pass 
their lives between them, in bustle without busi- 
ness, and negligence without quiet. 

Among the principal names of this moderate 
set is that great philosopher Jack Whirler, whose 
business keeps him in perpetual motion, and 
whose motion always eludes his business; who 
is always to do what he never does, who cannot 
stand still becdufe he is wanted in another place, 



and who is wanted in many places because he 
stays ill none. 

Jack has more business than he can conveni- 
ently transact in one house; he has therefore 
one habitation near Bow- Church, and another 
about a mile distant. By this ingenious distri- 
bution of himself between two houses. Jack has 
contrived to be found at neither. Jack's trade 
is extensive, and he has many dealers ; his con- 
versation is sprigh*^ly, and he has many compan- 
ions ; his disposition is kind, and he has many 
friends. Jack neither forbears pleasure for busi- 
ness, nor omits business for ])leasure, but 13 
equally invisible to his friends and his customers ; 
to him that comes with an invitation to a club, 
and to him that waits to settle an account. 

"When you call at his liouse, his clerk tells you, 
that Mr. Whirler has just stept out, but will be 
at home exactly at two ; you v/ait at a coflfee- 
house till two, and then find that he has been 
at home, and is gone out again, but left word 
that he should be at the Half-moon tavern at 
seven, where he hopes to meet you. At seven 
you go to the tavern. At eight in comes Mr. 
Whirler to tell you, that he is glad to see you, and 
only begs leave to run for a few minutes to a 
gentleman that lives near the Exchange, from 
whom he will return before supper can be i*eady. 
Away he runs to the Exchange, to tell those 
who are waiting for him, that he must beg them 
to defer the business till to-morrow, because his 
time is come at the Half-moon. 

Jack's cheerfulness and civility rankhim among 
those whose presence never gives pain, and whom 
all receive with fondness and caresses. He calls 
often on his friends to tell them, that he will 
come again to-moiTOw ; on the mon-ow he comes 
again, to tell them how an unexpected summons 
hurries him away. — W^hen he enters a house, 
his first declaration is, that he cannot sit down ; 
and so short are his visits, that he seldom ap- 
pears to have come for any other reason but to 
say he must go. 

The dogs of Egj-pt, when thirst brings them 
to the Nile, are said to run as they drink for 
fear of the crocodiles. Jack W^hirler always 
dines at full speed. He enters, finds the family 
at table, s^its familiarly down, and fills his plate; 
but while the first morsel is in his mouth, hears 
the clock strike, and rises; then goes to another 
house, sits down again, recollects another en- 
gagement; has only time to taste the soup, makes 
a short excuse to the company, and continue.* 
through another street his desultory dinner. 

But, overwhelmed as he is with business, his 
chief desire is to have still more. Every new 
proposal takes possession of his thoughts ; he 
soon balances probabilities, engages in the pro- 
ject, brings it almost to completion, and then 
forsakes it for another, which he catches with 
some alacrity, urges with the same vehemence, 
and abandons with the same coldness. 



No. 20.1 



THE IDLER, 



21 



Every man may be observed to have a certain 
strain of lamentation, some peculiar theme of 
complaint on which he dwells in his moments- 
of dejection. Jack's topic of sorrow is his want 
of time. Many an excellent design languishes 
in empty theory for want of time. For the 
omission of any civilities, want of time is his 
plea to others ; for the neglect of any affairs, 
want of time is his excuse to himself. That he 
wants time he sincerely believes; for he once 
pined away many months with a lingering dis- 
temper, for want of time to attend to his 
health. 

Thus Jack Whirler lives in perpetual fatigues 
without proportionate advantage, because he 
does not consider that no man can see ell with 
his own eyes, or do all with his own hands ; 
that whoever is engaged in multiplicity of busi- 
ness, must transact much by substitution, and 
leave something to hazard ; and that he who 
attempts to do aU, will waste his life in doing 
little. 






No. 20.] Satukdat, Aug. 26, 1758. 



There is no crime more infamous than the 
violation of truth. It is apparent that men can 
be social beings no longer than they believe 
each other. When speech is employed only as 
the vehicle of falsehood, every man must dis- 
unite himself from others, inhabit his own caA'e, 
and seek prey only for himself. 

Yet the law of truth, thus sacred and neces- 
sary, is broken without punishment, without 
censure, in compliance with inveterate preju- 
dice and prevailing passions. Men are willing 
to credit what they wish, and encourage rather 
those who gratify them with pleasures, than 
those that instruct them with fidelity. 

For this reason every historian discovers his 
country ; and it is impossible to read the differ- 
ent accounts of any great event, without a wish 
that truth had more power over partiality. 

Amidst the joy of my countrjonen for the 
Acquisition of Louisbourg, I could not forbear 
to consider how differently this revolution of 
American power is not only now mentioned by 
the contending nations, but will be represented 
by the writers of another century. 

The English historian will imagine himself 
barely doing justice to English virtue, when he 
relates the capture of Louisbourg in the follow- 
ing manner: — 

" The English had hitherto seen, with great 
Indignation, their attempts baffled and their 
force defied by an enemy, whom they consid- 
ered thomselves as entitled to conquer by the 
right of prescription, and whom many ages of 
hereditary superiority had taught them to des- 
pise. Their fleets were more numerous, and 



their seamen braver, than those of France ; yet 
they only floated useless on the ocean, and the 
French derided them from their porta. Mis- 
fortunes, as is usual, produced discontent, the 
people murmured at the ministers, and the 
ministers censured the commanders. 

'* In the summer of this year, the English 
began to find their success answerable to their 
cause. A fleet and an army were sent to 
America to dislodge the enemies from the settle- 
ments which they had so perfidiously made, 
and so insolently maintained, and to repress 
that power which was growing more every day 
by the association of the Indians with whom 
these degenerate Europeans intermarried, and 
whom they secured to their party by presents 
and promises. 

" In the beginning of June the ships of war 
and vessels containing the land forces appeared 
before Louisbourg, a place so secure by nature 
that art was almost superfluous, and yet forti- 
fied by art as if nature had left it open. The 
French boasted that it was. impregnable, and 
spoke with scorn of all attempts that could be 
made against it. The~garrison was numerous, 
the stores equal to the longest siege, and their 
engineers and commanders high in reputation. 

" The mouth of the harbour was so narrow, 
that three ships within might easily defend it 
against aU attacks from the sea. The French 
had, "tvith that caution which cowards borrow 
from fear, and attribute to policy, eluded our 
fleets, and sent into that port five great ships 
and §ix smaller, of which tliey sunk four in the 
mouth of the passage, having raised batteries 
and posted troops at all the places where they 
thought it possible to make a descent. The 
English, however, had more to dread from the 
roughness of the sea, than from the skill or 
bravery of the defendants. Some days passed 
before the surges, which rise very high round 
that island, would suffer them to land. At last 
their impatience could be restrained no longer ; 
they got possession of the shore with little loss 
by the sea, and with less by the enemy. In a 
few days the artillery was landed, the batteries 
were raised, and the French had no other hope 
than to escape from one post to another. A shot 
fi'om the batteries fired the powder in one of 
their largest ships, the flame spread to the two 
next, and all three were destroyed; the Eng- 
lish admiral sent his boats against the two large 
ships yet remaining, took them without resist- 
ance, and terrified the gaiTison to an immediate 
capitulation. " 

Let us now oppose to this English narrative 
the relation which will be produced, about the 
same time, by the writerof theage of Louis XV. 

" About this time the English admitted to thi 
conduct of affairs a man who imdertook to save 
from destruction that ferocious and turbulent 
people, who from the mean insolence of wealthy 



22 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 21. 



traders, and the lawless confidence of successful 
robbers, were now sunk in despair and stupified 
with horror. lie called in the ships which had 
been dispersed over the ocean to guard their 
merchants, and sent a fleet and an army, in 
which almost the whole strength of England 
was comprised, to secure their possessions in 
America, which were endangered alike by the 
French arms and the French virtue. We had 
taken the English fortresses by force, and gained 
the Indian nations by humanity. The English, 
wherever they come, are sure to have the na- 
tives for their enemies : for, the only motive of 
their settlements is avarice, and the only con- 
sequence of their success is oppression. In this 
war they acted like other barbarians, and, with 
a degree of outrageous cruelty which the gentle- 
ness of our manners scarcely suflFers us to con- 
ceive, offered rewards by open proclamation to 
those who should bring in the scalps of Indian 
women and children. A trader always makes 
war with the cruelty of a pirate. 

" They had long looked with envy and with 
terror upon the influence which the French ex- 
erted over all the northern regions of America 
by the possession of Louisbourg, a place na- 
turally strong, and new fortified with some 
slight outworks. They hoped to surprise the 
gai'rison unprovided; but that sluggishness 
which always defeats their malice, gave us time 
to send supplies, and to station ships for the 
defence of the harbour. They came before 
Louisbourg in June, and were for some time in 
doubt whether they should land. But the com- 
manders, who had lately seen an admiral be- 
headed for not having done what he had not 
power to do, durst not leave the place unassault- 
ed. An Englishman has no ardour for honour, 
nor zeal for duty ; he neither values glory nor 
loves his king, but balances one danger with 
another, and will fight rather than be hanged. 
They therefore landed, but with great loss ; 
their engineers had, in tke last war with the 
French, learned something of the militaiy sci- 
ence, and made their approaches with sufficient 
skill ; but all their efi'orts had been without ef- 
fect, had not a ball unfortunately fallen into the 
powder of one our ships, which communicated 
the fire to the rest, and, by opening the passage 
of the harbour, obliged the garrison to capitulate. 
Thus WS3 Louisbourg lost, and our troops 
marched out with the admiration of their ene- 
mies, who durst hardly think themselves mas- 
ters of the place." 



No. 21.] Saturday, Sept. 2, 1738. 

TO THE IDLER. 
Deau Mil. Idler, 
TiiKftE is a species of niiscry, or of disease, for 



which our language i« commonly supposed to be 
without a name, but which I think is emphati- 
cally enough denominated listlessness, and which 
is commonly termed a want of something to do. 

Of the unhappiness of this state I do not ex- 
pect all your readers to have an adequate idea. 
Many are overburthened with business, and can 
imagine no comfort but in rest ; many have 
minds so placid, as willingly to indulge a vo- 
luntary lethargy ; or so narrow, as easily to be 
filled to their utmost capacity. By these 1 
shall not be understood, and therefore cannot be 
pitied. Those only will s}Tnpathise with my 
complaint, whose imagination is active and re- 
solution weak, whose desires are ardent, and 
whose choice is delicate ; who cannot satisfy 
themselves with standing stUl, and yet cannot 
find a motive to direct their course. 

I was the second son of a gentleman, whose 
estate was barely sufficient to support himself 
and his heir in the dignity of killing game. He 
therefore made use of the interest which the 
alliances of his family afforded him, to procure 
me a post in the army. I passed some years in 
the most contemptible of all human stations, 
that of a soldier in time of peace. I wandered 
with the regiment as tl e quarters were changed, 
without opportunity for business, taste for know- 
ledge, or money for pleasure. Wherever I 
came, I was for some time a stranger without 
curiosity, and afterwards an acquaintance with- 
out friendship. Having nothing to hope in 
these places of fortuitous residence, I resigned 
my conduct to chance ; I had no intention to 
offend, I had no ambition to delight. 

I suppose every man is shocked when he hears 
how frequently soldiers are wishing for war. 
The wish is not always sincere ; the greater 
part are content with sleep and lace, and coun- 
terfeit an ardour which they do not feel; but 
those who desire it most are neither prompted 
by malevolence nor patriotism : they neither 
pant for laurels nor delight in blood ; but long^ 
to be delivered from the tyranny of idleness, and 
restored to the dignity of active beings. 

I never imagined myself to have more courage 
than other men, yet was often involuntaiy wish- 
ing for a war, but of a war at that time I had 
nr prospect ; and being enabled, by the death of 
an uncle, to live without my pay, I quitted the 
army, and resolved to regulate my own motions 

I was pleased, for a while, with the novelty o 
independence, and imjigined that I had now 
found what every man desires. My time was 
in my own power, and my habitation was 
wherever my choice should fix it. I amused 
myself for two years in passing from place to 
place, and comparing one convenience with an- 
other ; but being at last ashamed of inquiry, 
and weary of uncertainty, I purchased a house, 
and established my family. 

1 o^ow ex/)ected to begin to be happv. and waa 



I 



No. 522.] 



THE IDLER. 



S3 



happy for a short time with that expectation. ■ of this city, 1 was struck with horror by a rue 
But I soou perceived my spirits to subside, and ful cry which summoned me to remember the r)oor 
vaj imagination to grow dark. The gloom-; debtors. 



thickened every day around me. I wondered 
by what malignant power my peace was blasted, 
till I discovered at last that 1 had nothing to do. 
i Time, with all its celerity, moves slowly to 
j him whose whole emplojTnent is to watch its 
I flight. I am forced upon a thousand shifts to 
enable me to endure the tediousness of the day. I 
rise when T can sleep no longer, and take my 
morning walk ; I see v/hat I have seen before, 
and return. I sit down and persuade myself 
that 1 sit down to think, find it impossible to 
think without a subject, rise up to inquire after 
news, and endeavour to kindle in myself an arti- 
ficial impatience for intelligence of events, which 
will never extend any consequence to me, but 
that a few minutes they abstract me from myself. 
When 1 have heard any thing that may gra- 
tify curiosity, I am busied for a while in run- 
ning to relate it. I hasten from one place of 
concourse to another, delighted with my own 
importance, and proud to think that I am doing 
something, though I know that another hour 
would spare my labour. 

I had once a round of visits, which 1 paid 
very regularly ; but I have now tired most of 
my friends. When I have sat down I forget to 
rise, and have more than once overheard one 
asking another when I would be gone. I per- 
ceive the company tired, I observe the mistress 
of the family whispering to her servants, I find 
ordei's given to put off business till to-morrow, 
I see the watches frequently inspected, and yet 
cannot withdraw to the vacuity of solitude, or 
ventui'e myself in my own company. 

Thus burthensome to myself and others, I 
foim many schemes of employment which may 
make my life useful or agi'eeable, and exempt 
me fi'om the ignominy of living by sufferance. 
This new course 1 have long designed, but have 
not yet begun. The present moment is never 
proper for the change, but there is always a time 
in view v.'hen all obstacles will be removed, and 
I shall surprise all that know me with a new 
distribution of my time. Twenty years have 
passed since I have resolved a complete amend- 
ment, and twenty years have been lost in de- 
lays. Age is coming upon me; and I should 
look back with rage and despair upon the waste 
of life, but that I am now beginning in earnest 
to begin a I'eformation. 
1 am. Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

Dick Linger. 

No. 22.] Saturday, Sept. 16, 175S. 
TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 
As 1 wjis passing lately under one of the gates 



The wisdom and justice of the English laws 
are, by Englishmen at least, loudly celebrated : 
but scarcely the most zealous admii-ers of our 
institutions can think that law wise, which, 
when men are capable of work, obliges them to 
beg ; or just, which exposes the liberty of one 
to the passions of another. 

The prosperity of a people is proportionate to 
the number of hands and minds usefully em- 
ployed. To the community, sedition is a fever, 
corruption is a gangi-ene, and idleness is ai> 
atrophy. Whatever body, and whatever society 
wastes more than it acquires, must gradually 
decay ; and every being that continues to be fed, 
and ceases to labour, takes away something from 
the public stock. 

The confinement, therefore, of any man in 
the sloth and darkness of a prison, is a loss to 
the nation, and no gain to the creditor. For of 
the multitudes who are pining in those cells of 
misery, a very small part is suspected of any 
fraudulent act by which they retain what be- 
longs to otbors. The rest are imprisoned by 
the wantonness of pride, the malignity of re- 
venge, or the acrimony of disappointed expec- 
tation. 

If those, who thus rigorously exercise the 
power which the law has put into their hands, 
be asked, why they continue to imprison those 
whom they know to be unable to pay them? one 
will answer, that his debtor once lived better 
than himself; another, that his wife looked 
above her neighbours, and his children went in 
silk clothes to the dancing-school ; and another, 
that he pretended to be a joker and a wit. Some 
will reply, that if they wore in debt, they should 
meet with the same treatment ; some, that they 
owe no more than they can pay, and need there- 
fore give no account of their actions. Some 
will confess their resolution that their debtors 
shall rot in gaol; and some will discover, that 
they hope, by cruelty, to wring the payment 
from their friends. 

The end of all civil regulations is, to secure 
private happiness from private malignity ; to 
keep individuals from the power of one another: 
but this end is apparently neglected, when a 
man, irritated with loss, is allowed to be the 
judge of his own cause, and to assign the punish- 
ment of his own pain ; M-hen the distinction be- 
tween guilt and hapjiiness, between casualty 
and design, is entrusted to eyes blind with in- 
terest, to understandings depraved by resent- 
ment. 

Since poverty is punished among us as a crime, 
it ought at least to be ti-eated with the sanift 
lenity as other crimes : the offender ought not 
to languish at the a. ill of him v* hom he has of- 
fendedj but to be allowed seme appeal to the 



S4 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 23. 



justice of his country. There can be no reason 
why any debtor should be imprisoned, but tliat 
he may be compelled to payment ; and a term 
should therefore be fixed, iu which the creditor 
should exhibit his accusation of concealed pro- 
perty. If such property can be discovered, let 
it be given to the creditor ; if the charge is not 
offered, or cannot be proved, let the prisoner be 
dismissed. 

Those who made the laws have apparently 
supposed, that every deficiency of payment is 
the crime of tlie debtor. But the truth is, that 
the creditor always shares the act, and often 
more than shares the guilt of improper trust. 
It seldom happens that any man imprisons an- 
other but for debts which he suflored to be con- 
tracted in hope of advantage to himself, and for 
bargains in which he proportioned his profit to 
his own opinion of the hazard ; and there is no 
reason why one should punish the other for a 
contract in which both concurred. 

Many of the inhabitants of prisons may justly 
complain of harder treatment. He that once 
owes more than he can pay, is often obliged to 
bribe his creditor to patience, by increasing his 
debt. Worse and worse commodities, at a high- 
er and higher price, are forced upon him ; he is 
impoverished by compulsive traffic, and at last 
overwhelmed, in the common receptacles of mis- 
ery, by debts, which, without his own consent, 
were accumulated on his head. To the relief of 
this distress, no other objection can be made, 
but that by an easy dissolution of debts, fraud 
will be left without punishment, and impru- 
dence without awe ; and that when insolvency 
should be no longer punishable, credit will 
cease. 

The motive to credit is the hope of advan- 
tage. Commerce can never be at a stop, while 
one man wants what another can supply ; and 
credit will never be denied, while it is likely to 
be repaid with profit. He that trusts one whom 
he designs to sue, is criminal by the act of trust : 
the cessation of such iusiduous traflic is to be 
desired, and no reason can be given why a change 
of the law should impair any other. 

We see nation trade with nation, where no 
payment can be compelled. Mutual coiiveni- 
ence produces mutual confidence ; and the mer- 
chants continue to satisfy the demands of each 
other, though they have nothing to dread but 
the loss of trade. 

It is vain to continue an institution, which 
experience shows to be ineffectual. We have 
now imprisoned one generation of debtors after 
another, but we do not find that their numbers 
lessen. We have now learned that rashness and 
imprudence will not be deterred from taking 
credit ; let us try whether fraud and avarice may 
be more easily restrained from giving it. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



No. 23.] Saturday, Sept. 23, 1753. 



LiFK has no pleasure higher or nobler tlian that 
of friendsliip. It is painful to fonsider, that 
this sublime enjoyment may be impaired or de- 
stroyed by innumerable causes, and that tiiere 
is no human possession of whicli the dui*ation is 
less certain. 

Many have talked, in very exalted language, 
of the perpetuity of friendsliip, of invincible con- 
stancy, and unalienable kindness; and some ex- 
amples have been seen of men who have contin- 
ued faithful to tlieir earliest choice, and whose 
affection has predominated over changes of for- 
tune, and contrariety of opinion. 

But these instances are memorable, because 
they are rare. The friendship which is to be 
practised or expected by common mortals, must 
take its rise from mutual pleasure, and must end 
when the power ceases of delighting each other. 

Many accidents therefore may happen, by 
which the ardour of kindness will be abated, 
without criminal baseness or contemptilde in- 
constancy on either part. To give pleasure is 
not always in our power; and little does he 
know himself, who believes that he can be al- 
ways able to receive it. 

Those who would gladly pass their days to- 
gether may be separated by the different course 
of their affaii-s : and friendship, like love, is de- 
stroyed by long absence, though it may be in- 
ci eased by short intermissions. What we have 
missed long enough to want it, we value more 
when it is regained ; but that which has been 
lost till it is forgotten, will be found at last with 
little gladness, and with still less, if a substitute 
has supplied the place. A man deprived of the 
companion to whom he used to open his bosom, 
and with whom he shared the hours of leisure 
and mei'riment, feels the day at first hanging 
heavy on him; his difficulties oppress, and his 
doubts distract him ; he sees time come and go 
without his wonted gratification, and all is sad- 
ness within and solitude about him. But this 
uneasiness never lasts long ; necessity produces 
expedients, new amusements are discovered, and 
new conversation is admitted. 

]So expectation is more frequently disappoint- 
ed, than that which naturally arises in the 
mind from the prospect of meeting an old friend 
after long separation. We expect the attraction 
to be revived, and the coalition to be renewed ; 
no man considers how much alteration time 
has made in himself, and very few inquire what 
effect it has had upon others. The first hour 
convinces them, that the pleasure vihich they 
have formerly enjoyed, is for ever at an end ; 
different scenes have made different impres- 
sions; the opinions of both are changed; and 
that similitude of manners and sentiment is 



No. 21.] 



lost, which conflrmed them both in the appro- 
bation of themselvess. 

Friendship is often destroyed by opposition of 
interest, not only by the ponderous and visible 
interest which the desire of wealth and great- 
ness forms and maintains, but by a thousand 
secret and slight competitions, scarcely known 
to the mind upon which they operate. There 
is scarcely any man without some favourite 
ti'ifle which he values above greater attainments, 
some desire of petty praise w^hich he cannot 
patiently suffer to be frustrated. This minute 
ambition is sometimes crossed before it is 
knoAvn, and sometimes defeated by wanton 
petulance ; but such attacks are seldom made 
without the loss of friendship ; for whoever has 
once found the vulnerable part will always be 
feared, and the resentment will burn on in 
secret, of which shame hinders the discovery. 

This, however, is a slow malignity, which a 
wise man will obviate as inconsistent with 
quiet, and a good man will repress as contrary 
to virtue ; but human happiness is sometimes 
violated by some more sudden strokes. 

A dispute begun in jest upon a subject which 
a moment before was on both parts rjegarded 
with careless indifference, is continued by the 
desire of conquest, till vanity kindles into rage, 
and opposition rankles into enmity. AgaiiLst 
this hasty mischief, I know not what security 
can be obtained; men will be sometimes sur- 
prised into quarrels; and though they might 
both hasten to reconciliation, as soon as their 
tumult had subsided, yet two minds wiU seldom 
be found together, which can at once subdue 
their discontent, or immediately enjoy the sweets 
of peace, without remembering the wounds of 
the conflict. 

Friendship has other enemies. Suspicion is 
always hardening the cautious, and disgust re- 
pelling the delicate. Very slender differences 
will sometimes part those whom long recipro- 
cation of civility or beneficence has united. 
Lonelove and Ranger retired into the country 
to enjoy the company of each other, and re- 
turned in six weeks cold and petulant : Ran- 
ger's pleasm'e was, to walk in the fields, and 
Lonelove's to sit in a bower ; each had complied 
with the other in his turn, and each was angry 
that compliance had been exacted. 

ITie most fatal disease of friendship is gradual 
decay, or dislike hourly increased by causes too 
slender for complaint and too numerous for 
rjemoval. — Those who are angry may be recon- 
ciled; those who have been injured may receive 
a recompence ; but when the desire of pleasing 
and willingness to be pleased is silently dimin- 
ished, the renovation of friendship is hopeless ; 
as, when the vital powers sink into languor, 
there is no longer any use of the physician. 



THE IDLER. ^a 

No. 24.] Saturday, Sept. 80, 1758. 



When man sees one of the inferior creatures 
perched upon a tree, or basking in the sunshine, 
without any apparent endeavour or pursuit, he 
often asks himself, or his companion. On what 
that animal can be supposed to be thinking F 

Of this question, since neither bird nor beast 
can answer it, we must be content to live with- 
out the resolution. We know not how much 
the brutes recollect of the past, or anticipate of 
the future ; what power they have of comparing 
and preferring ; or whether their faculties may 
not rest in motionless indifference, tiU they are 
moved by the presence of their proper object, or 
stimulated to act by corporal sensations. 

I am the less inclined to these superfluous in- 
quiries, because 1 have always been able to find 
sufficient matter for curiosity in my own 
species. It is useless to go far in quest of that 
which may be found at home ; a very narrow 
circle of observation will supply a suflBicient 
number of men and women, who might be 
asked, with equal propriety, On what they can be 
thinking ? 

It is reasonable to believe, that thought, like 
every thing else, has its causes and effects ; that 
it must proceed from something known, done, 
or suffered ; and must produce some action or 
event. Yet how great is the number of those 
in whose minds no source of thought has ever 
been opened, in whose life no thought of conse- 
quence is ever discovered ; who have learned 
nothing upon which they can reflect ; who have 
neither seen nor felt any thing wliich could 
leave its traces on the memory; who neither 
foresee nor desire any change of their condition, 
and have therefore neither fear, hope, nor de- 
sign, and yet are supposed to be thinking 
beings. 

To every act a subject is required. He that 
thinks, must think upon something. But tell 
me, ye that pierce deepest into nature, ye that 
take the widest surveys of life, inform me, kind 
shades of Malbranche and of Locke, what that 
something can be, which excites and continues 
thought in maiden aunt^ with small fortimes ; 
in younger brothers that live upon annuities ; 
in traders retired from business ; in soldiers ab- 
sent from their regiments ; or in widows that 
have no children ? 

Life is commonly considered as either active 
or contemplative ; but surely this division, how 
long soever it has been received, is inadequate 
and falacious. There are mortals whose life is 
certainly not active, for they do neither good 
nor evil ; and whose life cannot be properly cal- 
led contemplative, for they never attend either 
to the conduct of men, or the works of nature, 
but rise in the morninija look round ihem till 
E 



96 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 25. 



night in careless stupidity, go to bed and sleep, 
and rise again in the morning. 

It has been lately a celebi-ated question in tbe 
schools of philosophy, Wlietlier the soul always 
thinks ? Some have defined the soul to be the 
poiver of thinking ; concluded that its essence con- 
sists in act ; that, if it should cease to act, it 
would cease to be; and that cessation of thought 
is but another name for extinction of mind. 
This argument is subtile, but not conclusive ; 
because it supposes what cannot be proved, that 
the nature of mind is properly defined. Others 
affect to disdain subtilty, when subtilty will not 
serve their purpose, and appeal to daily experi- 
ence. We spend many hours, they say, .in 
sleep, without the least remembrance of any 
thoughts which then passed in our minds ; and 
since we can only by our own consciousness be 
sure that we think, why should we imagine 
that we have had thought of which no conscious- 
ness remains? 

This argument, which appeals to experience, 
may fi'om experience be confuted. "We every 
day do something which we forget when it is 
done, and know to have been done only by con- 
sequence. The waking hours are not denied to 
have been passed in thought ; yet he that shall 
endeavour to recollect on one day the ideas of 
the former, will only turn the eye of reflection 
upon vacancy; he will find, that the greater 
part is irrevocably vanished, and wonder how 
the moments could come and go, and leave so 
little behind them. 

To discover only that the arguments on both 
sides are defective, and to throw back the tenet 
into its former uncertainty, is the sport of wan- 
ton or malevolent scepticism, delighting to see 
the sons of philosophy at work upon a task 
which never can be decided. I shall suggest an 
argument hitherto overlooked, which may per- 
haps determine the controvei'sy. 

If it be impossible to think without materials, 
there must necessarily be minds that do not 
always think ; and whence shall we furnish 
materials for the meditation of the glutton be- 
tween his meals, of the sportsman in a rainy 
month, of the annuitant between the days of 
quarterly payment, of the politician when the 
mt-ils are detained by contraiy winds? 

But how frequent soever may be the exam- 
ples of existence without thought, it is certainly 
a state not much to be desired. He that lives 
in torpid insensibility, wants nothing of a car- 
cass but putrefaction. It is the part of every 
inhabitant of the earth to partake the pains and 
pleasures of his fellow-beings; and, as in a 
road through a country desert and uniform, the 
traveller languishes for want of amusement, so 
the passage of life will be tedious and irlisome 
to him who does not beguile it by diversified 
IdL'as. 



No. 26.] SATunnAY, Oct. 7, V 



TO THE IDLER. 

Sir, 
I AM a very constant frequenter of the play- 
house, a place to which I suppose the Idler not 
much a stranger, since he can have no where 
else so much entertainment with so little con- 
currence of his own endeavour. At all other 
assemblies, he that comes to receive delight, 
will be expected to give it ; but in the theatre 
nothing is necessary to the amusement of two 
hom's, but to sit down and be willing to be 
pleased. 

The last week has offered two new actors to 
the towTi. The appearance and retirement of 
actors are the great events of the theatrical 
world ; and their first performance fills the pit 
with conjecture and prognostication, as the first 
actions of a new monarch agitate nations with 
hope or fear. 

What opinion I have formed of the future 
excellence of these candidates for dramatic 
glory, it is not necessary to declare. Their en- 
trance gave me a higher and nobler pleasure 
than any borrowed character can afford. I saw 
the ranks of the theatre emulating each other 
in candour and humanity, and contending who 
should most eflfectually assist the struggles of 
endeavour, dissipate the blush of diflSdence, and 
still the flutter of timidity. 

This behavioiu' is such as becomes a people, 
too tender to repress those who wish to please, 
too generous to insult those who can make no 
resistance. A public performer is so much in 
the power of spectators, that all unnecessary 
severity is restrained by that general law of hu- 
manity which forbids us to be cruel, where 
there is nothing to be feared. 

In every new performer something must be 
pardoned. No man can, by any force of reso- 
lution, secure to himself the full possession of 
his own powers under the eye of a large assem- 
bly. Variation of gesture, and flexion of voice, 
are to be obtained only by experience. 

There is nothing for which such numbers 
think themselves qualified as for theatrical ex- 
hibition. Every human being has an action 
graceful to his own eye, a voice musical to his 
own ear, and a sensibility which nature forbids 
him to know that any other bosom can excel. 
An art in which such numbers fancy them- 
selves excellent, and which the public liberally 
rewards, will excite many competitors, and in 
many attempts there must be many miscar- 
riages. 

The care of the critic should be to distinguish 

error from inability, faults of inexperience from 

defects of nature. Action in-egxilar and turbu- 

I lent may be reclaimed; vociferation vehement 



26'.1 



THE IDLER. 



27 



ami confused maybe resti-aiiu;il and modulated; 
the stalk of the tyrant may become the gait of 
the man ; the yell of inarticulate distress may 
be reduced to human lamentation. All these 
faults should be for a time overlooked, and after- 
wards censured with gentleness and candour. 
But if in an actor there appears an utter vacan- 
cy of meaning, a frigid equality, a stupid lan- 
guor, a torbid apathy, the greatest kindness 
that can be shown him, is a speedy sentence of 
expulsion. 

I am, Sir, &c. 

The plea which my correspondent has offered 
for young actors, I am very far from wishing to 
invalidate. I always considered those combina- 
ations which are sometimes formed in the play- 
house, as acts of fraud or of cruelty ; he that 
applauds him who does not deserve praise, is 
endeavouring to deceive the public ; he that 
hisses in malice or sport, is an oppressor and a 
robber. 

But surely this laudable forbearance might be 
justly extended to young poets. The art of the 
writer, like that of the player, is attained by 
sloAV degrees. The power of distinguishing and 
discriminating comic characters, or of fiUing 
tragedy with poetical images, must be the gift 
of nature, which no instruction nor labour can 
supply ; but the art of di-amatic disposition, the 
contexture of the scenes, the opposition of char- 
acters, the involution of the plot, the expedi- 
ents of suspension, and the stratagems of sur- 
prise, are to be learned by practice ; and it is 
cruel to discourage a poet for ever, because he 
has not from genius what only experience can 
bestow. 

Life is a stage. Let me likewise solicit can- 
dour for the young actor on the stage of life. 
They that enter into the world are too often 
treated with unreasonable rigour by those that 
were once as ignorant and heady as themselves ; 
and distinction is not always made between the 
faults which require speedy and violent eradica- 
tion, and those that will gradually drop away 
in the progression of life. Vicious solicitations 
of appetite, if not checked, will grow more 
importunate ; and mean arts of profit or ambi- 
tion will gather strength in the mind, if they 
are not early suppressed. But mistaken notions 
of superiority, desires of useless show, pride 
of little accomplishments, and all the train of 
vanity, wiU. be brushed away by the wing of 
T«me. 

Repi'oof should not exhaust its power upon 
petty failings ; let it watch diligently against 
the incursion of vice, and leave foppery and fu- 
tility to die of themselves. 



No. 26.1 Satuudav, Oct. U-, 1758. 



Mr. Idler, 

I NEVER thought that I should write any thing 
to be printed ; but having lately seen your first 
essay, which was sent down into the kitchen, 
with a great bundle of gazettes and useless papers, 
I find that you are willing to admit any corre- 
spondent, and therefore hope you will not reject 
me. If you publish my letter, it may encourage 
others, in the same condition with myself, to 
tell their stories, which may be perhaps as use- 
ful as those of great ladies. 

I am a poor girl. I was bred in the country 
at a charity-school, maintained by the contri- 
butions of wealthy neighbours. The ladies, or 
patronesses, visited us from time to time, ex- 
amined how we were taught, and saw that our 
clothes were clean. "We lived happily enough, 
and wei'e instructed to be thankfid to those at 
whose cost we were educated. I was always 
the favourite of my mistress ; she used to call 
me to read, and show my copy-book to all 
strangers, who never dismissed me without 
commendation, and very seldom without a shil- 
ling. 

At last the chief of our subscribers, having 
passed a winter in London, came down full of 
an opinion new and strange to the whole coun- 
try. She held it little less than criminal to 
teach poor girls to read and write. They who 
are born to poverty, said she, are born to ignor- 
ance, and will work the harder, the less they 
know. 

She told her friends, that London was in 
confusion by the insolence of servants; that 
scarcely a wench was to be got for all ivork, since 
education had made such numbers of fine ladies, 
that nobody would now accept a lower title 
than that of a waiting-maid or something that 
might qnalify her to wear laced shoes and long 
ruffles, and to sit at work in the parlour win- 
dow. But she was resolved, for her part, to 
spoil no more gii'ls ; those, who were to live by 
their hands, should neither read nor write out 
of her pocket ; the world was bad enough al- 
ready, and she would have no part in making it 
worse. 

She was for a short time warmly opposed; 
but she persevered in her notions, and with- 
drew her subscription. Few listfen without a 
desire of conviction to those who advise them to 
spare their money. Her example and her ar- 
guments gained ground daily ; and in less than 
a year the whole parish was convinced, that 
the nation would be ruined, if the children of 
the poor were taught to read and wTite. 

Our school was now dissolved ; my mistress 
kissed me when we parted, and told me, that, 
being old and helpless she could not assist me. 



28 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 



advised me to seel* a service, nnd charged me 
not to forget what I had learned. 

My reputation for scholarship, which had 
hitherto recommended me to favour, was, by 
the adherents to the new opinion, considered as 
a crime ; and, when I offered myself to any 
mistress, I had no other answer than Sure, 
child, you would not work ! hard work is not Jit 
for a pen-woman; a scnibbing-bnish xvould spoil 
your hnud, child / 

I could not live at home ; and while I was 
considering to what I should betake me, one of 
the girls, who had gone from our school to Lon- 
don, came down in a silk gown, and told her 
acquaintance how well she lived, what fine 
things she saw, and what great wages she re- 
ceived. I resolved to try my fortune, and took 
my passage in the next week's waggon to Lon- 
don. I had no snares laid for me at my anival, 
but came safe to a sister of my mistress, who 
undertook to get me a place. She knew only 
the families of mean tradesmen ; and I, having 
no high opinion of my own qualifications, was 
willing to accept the first offer. 

My first mistress was wife of a working 
watchmiaker, who earned more than was suffi- 
cient to keep his family in decency and plenty ; 
but it was their constant practice to hire a 
chaise on Sunday, and spend half the wages of 
the week on Richmond hill ; of Monday he com- 
monly lay half in bed, and spent the other half 
in merriment; Tuesday and Wednesday con- 
sumed the rest of his money; and three days 
every week were passed in extremity of want 
by us who were left at home, while my master 
lived on trust at an ale-house. You may be 
sure, that of the sufferers, the maid suffered 
most ; and I left them, after three months, 
rather than be starved. 

I was then maid to a hatter's wife. There 
was no want to be dreaded, for they lived in 
perpetual luxury. My mistress was a diligent 
woman, and rose early in the morning to set 
the journeymen to work; my master was a 
man much beloved by his neighbours, and sat 
at one club or other every night. I was obliged 
to wait on my master at night, and on my 
mistress in the morning. He seldom came 
home before two, and she rose at five. I could 
no more live without sleep than without food, 
and therefore entreated them to look out for 
another servant. 

My next removal was to a linen-draper's, 
who hitd six children. My mistress, when I 
first entered the house, informed me, that I 
must never contradict the children, nor suffer 
them to cry. I had no desire to offend, and 
readily promised to do my best. But when I 
gave them their breakfast, I could not help all 
first ; when 1 was playing with one in my lap, 
I was forced to keep the rest in expectation. 
That which was not gratified always resented 



my I 

erar- I 



No. 27.] Saturday, Oct. 21, 1758. 



It has been the endeavour of all those whom 
the world has reA'erenced for superior wisdom, 
to persuade man to be acquainted with himself, 
to learn his own powers and his own weakness, 
to observe by what evils he is most dangerously 
beset, and by what temptations most easily 
overcome. 

This counsel has been often given with seri- 
ous dignity, and often received with appearance 
of conviction ; but, as very few can search deep 
into their own minds without meeting what 
they wish to hide from themselves, scarcely 
any man persists in cultivating such disagree- 
able acquaintance, but draws the veil again be- 
tween his eyes and his heart, leaves his passions 
and appetites as he found them, and advises 
others to look into themselves. 

This is the common result of inquiry even 
among those that endeavour to grow wiser or 
better ; but this endeavour is far enough from 
frequency ; the greater part of the multitudes 
that swarm upon the earth have never been dis- 
turbed by such uneasy curiosity, but deliver 
themselves up to business or to pleasure, plunge 
into the current of life, whether placid or tur- 
bulent, and pass on from one point of prospect 
to another, attentive rather to any thing than 
the state of theli' minds ; satisfied, at an easy 



the injury w»;h aloud outcry, which put 
mistress in a fury at me, and procured sugar- 
plums to the child. I could not keep six chil- 
dren quiet, who were bribed to be clamorous ; 
and was therefore dismissed, as a girl honest, 
but not good-natured. 

I then lived with a couple that kept a petty 
shop of remnants and cheap linen. I was qual- 
ified to make a bill, or keep a book ; and being 
therefore often called, at a busy time, to serve 
the customers, expected that I should now be 
happy, in proportion as I was useful. But 
my mistress appropriated every day part of the ■ 
profit to some private use, and, as she grew I 
bolder in her theft, at last deducted such sums, 
that my master began to wonder how he sold so 
much, and gained so little. She pretended to 
assfet his inquiries, and began, very gravely, to 
hope that Betty ivas honest, and yet those sharj> 
girls were apt to be light Jingered. You will be- 
lieve that I did not stay there much longer. 

The rest of my story I will tell you in anoth- 
er letter ; and only beg to be informed, in some 
paper, for which of my places, except perhaps 
the last, I was disqualified by my skill in read- 
ing and writing. ' 
I am. Sir, 

Your very humble servant, 
Betty Broom. 



No. !w'S.] 



THE IDLER. 



^9 



rate, with an opioion, that they are no worse 
.than others, that every man must mind his own 
interest, or that their pleasures hurt only them-- 
selves, and are therefore no proper subjects of 
censure. 

Some, however, there are, whom the intru- 
sion of scruples, the recollection of better notions, 
or the latent reprehension of good examples, 
wiU not suffer to live entirely contented with 
their own conduct ; these are forced to pacify 
the mutiny of reason with fair promises, and 
quiet their thoughts with designs of calling 
all their actions to review, and planning a new 
scheme for the time to come. 

There is nothing which we estimate so falla- 
ciously as the force of our own resolutions, nor 
any fallacy which we so unwillingly and tardi- 
ly detect. He that has resolved a thousand 
times, and a thousand times deserted his own 
purpose, yet suffers no abatement of his confi- 
dence, but still believes himself his own master ; 
and able, by innate vigour of soul, to press for- 
ward to his end, through all the obstructions 
that inconveniences or delights can put in his 
way. 

That this mistake should prevail for a time is 
very natural. When conviction is present, and 
temptation out of sight, Ave do not easily con- 
ceive how any reasonable being can deviate 
from his true interest. What ought to be done, 
while it yet hangs only in speculation, is so plain 
and certain, that there is no place for doubt; 
the whole soul yields itself to the predominance 
of truth, and readily determines to do what, 
when the time of action comes, will be at last 
omitted. 

I believe most men may review all the lives 
that have past within their observation, without 
remembering one ef&cacious resolution, or be- 
ing able to tell a single instance of a coiu-se of 
practice suddenly changed in consequence of a 
change of opinion, or an establishment of deter- 
mination. Many, indeed, alter their conduct, 
and are not at fifty what they were at thirty ; 
but they commonly varied imperceptibly from 
themselves, followed the train of external causes, 
and rather suffered reformation than made it. 

It is not uncommon to charge the difference 
between promise and performance, between pro- 
fession and reality, upon deep design and stud- 
ied deceit ; but the truth is, that there is very 
little hypocrisy in the world: we do not so 
often endeavour or wish to impose on others as 
on ourselves ; we resolve to do right, we hope 
to keep our resolutions, we declare them to con- 
firm our own hope, and fix our own inconstan- 
cy by calling witnesses of our' actions ; but 
at last habit prevails, and those whom we 
invited to our triumph, laxigh at our defeat. 

Custom is commonly too strong for the most 
resolute resolver, though furnished for the as- 
sault with all the weapons of philosophy. " He 



that endeavours to free himself from an iU 
habit," says Bacon, "must not change too much 
at a time, lest he should be discouraged by diffi- 
culty ; nor too little, for then he will make but 
slow advances." This is a precept which may 
be applauded in a book, but will fail in the ti'ial, 
in which every change will be found too great 
or too little. Those who have been able to con- 
quer habit, are like those that are fabled to 
have returned from the realms of Pluto : 

Fauci, qt/os aquus amavit 
Jupiter, atque ardens evexit ad athera virtus. 

They are sufficient to give hope, but not secur- 
ity ; to animate the contest, but not to promise 
victory. 

Those who are in the power of evil habits, 
must conquer them as they can ; and conquered 
they must be, or neither wisdom nor happiness 
can be attained; but those who are not yet 
subject to their influence may, by timely cau- 
tion, preserve their fi'eedom ; they may effectu- 
ally resolve to escape the tyrant, whom they 
will very vainly resolve to conquer. 



No. 28.] Saturday, Oct. 28, 1758. 



TO THE IDLER. 

Sir, 
It is very easy for a man who sits idle at faome, 
and has nobody to please but himself^ to ridi- 
cule or to censure the common practices of man- 
kind ; and those who have no present tempta- 
tion to break the rules of propriety, may ap- 
plaud his judgement, and join in his merriment ; 
but let the author or his readers mingle with 
common life, they will find themselves irre- 
sistibly borne away by the stream of custom, 
and must submit, after they have laughed at 
others, to give others the same opportunity of 
laughing at them. 

There is no paper published by the Idler which 
I have read with more approbation than that 
which censures the practice of recording vulgar 
marriages in the newspapei-s. I carried it 
about in my pocket, and read it to aU those 
whom 1 suspected of having published their 
nuptials, or of being inclined to publish them, 
and sent transcripts of it to all the couples that 
transgressed your precepts for the next fort- 
night. I hoped that they were all vexed, 
and pleased myself with imagining their mis- 
ery. 

But short is the triumph of malignity. I 
was married last week to Miss Mohair, the 
daughter of a salesman ; and, at my fii*st ap- 
pearance after the wedding night, was asked 
by my wife's mother whether 1 had sent our 



so 



THE IDLER. 



No. 29. I 



miirriage to the Advcx'tiser ; I eiidfavoure:! ta 
show how uul'.t it was to dcMiand tlio attfulioii 
of the publio to oar d<,«m„'stic adairs ; but s!ic 
told me, with groat vehemence, " That she 
Avould not have it thought to be a stolen match ; 
that tlie blood of the Mohairs should never be 
disgraced ; that her husband had served all 
the parish offices but one; that she had lived 
five-and-thirty years at the same house, and 
paid every body twenty shillings in the pound, 
and would have me know, though she was not 
as fine and as flaunting as Mi's. Gingham, the 
deputy's wife, she was not ashamed to tell her 
name, and would show her face with the best 
of them, and since I had married her daughter 
— — " At this instant entered my father-in- 
law, a grave man, from whom I expected suc- 
cour : but upon hearing the case, he told me, 
** That it would be very imprudent to miss 
such an opportunity of advertising my shop ; 
and that when notice was given of my mar- 
riage, many of my wife's friends would think 
themselves obliged to be my customers." I was 
subdued by clamour on one side, and gravity on 
the other, and shall be obliged to tell the town 
that three days ago Timothy Mushroom, an emin- 
ent oUman in Seo- Coal-lane, 2vas married to Miss 
Polly Mohair, of Lothbury, a beautiful young lady, 
with a large fortune. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



Sir, 
I AM the unfortunate Avife of the grocer whose 
letter you published about ten weeks ago, in 
which he complains, like a sorry fellow, that I 
loiter in the shop with my needle-wcrk in my 
hand, and that I oblige him to take me out on 
Sundays, and keep a girl to look after the child. 
Sweet Mr. Idler, if you did but laiow all, you 
tvould give no encouragement to such an un- 
reasonable grumbler. I brought him three 
hundred pounds, which set him up in a shop, 
and bought in a stock, on which, with good 
management, we might live comfortably; but 
now I have given him a shop, I am forced to 
watch him and the shop too. I wiU tell you, 
Mr. Idler, how it is. Tliei'e is an alehouse 
over the way, with a nine-pin alley, to which 
he is sure to run when I turn my back, and 
there he loses his money, for he plays at nine- 
pins as he does every thing else. While he is 
at this favourite sport, he sets a dirty boy to 
watch his door, and call him to his customers ; 
but he is long in coming, and so rude when he 
comes, that our custom falls off every day. 

Those who cannot govern themselves, must 
be governed ; I am resolved to keep him for the 
future behind his counter, and let him bounce 
at his customers if he dares. I cannot be above 
stairs and below at the same time, and have 



therefore taken a girl to look after the chila, and] 
dr^jss the dinner; and, after all, pray who is] 
to blame ? 

On a Sunday, it is true, I make him walk 
abroad, and sometimes carry the child ; — I 
wonder who should carry it! But I never take 
him out till after church-time, nor would do it 
then, but that, if he is left alone, he will be 
upon the bed. On a Sunday, if he stays at 
home he has six meals ; and, Avhen he can eat 
no longer, has twouty sti'atagems to escape from 
me to the ale-house ; but 1 commonly keep the 
door locked, till Monday produces something 
for him to do. 

This is the true state of the case, and these 
are the pi'ovocations for which he has written 
his letter to you. I hope you will write a 
paper to show that, if a wife must spend her 
whole time in watching her husband, she can- 
not conveniently tend her child, or sit at her 
needle. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



Sir, 
There is in this town a species of oppression 
which the law has not hitherto prevented or re- 
dressed. 

I am a chairman. You know, Sir, we come 
when we are called, and are expected to carry- 
all who require our assistance. It is common 
for meu of the most unwieldy corpulence to 
crowd themselves into a chair, and demand to 
be carried for a shilling as far as an airy young 
lady whom we scarcely feel upon our poles. 
Surely we ought to be paid like aU other mor- 
tals, in proportion to our labour. Engines 
should be fixed in proper places to weigh chairs 
as they weigh waggons ; and those, whom ease 
and plenty have made unable to cany them- 
selves, should give part of their superfluities to 
those who carry them. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



No. 29.] Saturday, Nov. 4, 1758. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



I HAVE often observed, that friends are lost by 
discontinuance of intercourse, without any of- 
fence on either part, and have long known, that 
it is more dangerous to be forgotten than to be 
blamed ; I therefoi-e make haste to send you 
the rest of my story, lest, by the delay of 
another fortnight, the name of Betty Broom 
might be no longer remembered by you or your 
readers. 

Having left the last place in haste, to avoid 



No. 29.] 



THE IDLER. 



$1 



the charge or the suspicion of theft, I had not 
secured another service, and was forced to take 
a lodging in a back street. I had now got good 
clothes. Tlie woman who lived ia the garret' 
opposite to mine was very officious, and offered 
lo take care of my room and clean it, while I 
wont rouud to my acquaintance to inquire for a 
misti'ess. I knew not why she vv^as so kind, 
nor how I could recompense her; but in a few 
days I missed some of my linen, went to 
another lodging, and resolved not to have 
another friend in the next garret. 

In six weeks 1 became under-maid at the 
house of a mercer in Cornhill, whose son was 
his apprentice. The young gentleman used to 
sit late at the tavern, without the knowledge of 
his father ; and I was ordered by my mistress 
to let him in silently to his bed under the coxin- 
ter, and to be very careful to take away his can- 
dle. The hours which I was obliged to watch, 
whilst the rest of the family was in bed, I 
considered as supernumerary, and, having no 
business assigned for tliem, thought myself at 
liberty to spend them my own way: I kept 
myself awake with a book, and for some time 
liked my state the better for this opportunity of 
reading. At last, the upper-maid found my 
book, and showed it to my mistress, who told 
me, that wenches like me might spend their 
time better; that she never knew any of the 
readers that had good designs in their heads ; 
that she could always find something else to do 
with her time, than to puzzle over books ; and 
did not like that such a fine lady should sit up 
for her young master. 

This was the first time that I found it 
thought criminal or dangerous to know how to 
read. 1 was dismissed decently, lest I should 
teU tales, and had a small gratuity above my 
wages. 

I then lived with a gentlewoman of a small 
fortune. This was the only happy part of my 
life. My mistress, for whom public diversions 
were too expensive, spent her time with books, 
and was pleased to find a maid who could par- 
take her amusements. I rose early in the 
morning, that 1 might have time in the after- 
noon to read or listen, and was suffered to tell 
my opinion, or express my delight. Thus fif- 
teen months stole away, in which I did not re- 
pine that I was born to servitude. But a burn- 
ing fever seized my mistress, of whom I shall 
say no more, than that her servant wept upon 
her grave. 

I' had lived in a kind of luxury which made 
me very unfit for another place ; and was rather 
too delicate for the conversation of a kitchen ; 
so that when I was hired in the family of an 
Kast India director, my behaviour was so dif- 
ferent, as they said, from that of a common ser- 
vant, that they concluded me a gentlewouian 
in disguise, and turned me out in three weeks, 



on suspicion of seme design which they could 
not compi-ehend. 

I then fled for refuge to the Other end of tha 
town, where 1 hoped to find no obstruction 
from my new accomplisliments, and was hired 
under the housekeeper in a splendid family. 
Here 1 was too v.-ise for the maids, and too nice 
for the footman; yet I might have lived. on with- 
out much uneasiness, had not my misti-ess, the 
housekeeper, who used to employ me in buying 
necessaries for the family, formd a bill which I 
had made of one day's expense. I suppose it 
did not quite agree with her own book, for she 
fiercely declared her resolution, that there 
should be no pen and ink in that kitchen but 
her own. 

She had the justice, or the prudence, not to 
injure my reputation; and I was easily admit- 
ted into another house in the neighbomhood, 
where my business was, to sweep the rooms and 
make the beds. Here I was for some time the 
favourite of Mrs. Simper, my lady's woman, 
who could not bear the Aiilgar girls, and was 
happy in the attendance of a young woman of 
some education. Mrs. Simper loved a novel, 
though she could not read hard words, and 
therefore when her lady was abroad, we always 
laid hold on her books. At last, my abilities 
became so much celebrated, that the house- 
steward used to employ me in keeping his ac- 
counts. Mrs. Simper then found out, that my 
sauciness was grown to such a height that no- 
body could endure it, and told my lady, that 
there had never been a room well swept since 
Betty Broom came into the house. 

I was then hired by a consumptive lady, who 
wanted a maid that could read and write. I 
attended her four years, and though she was 
never pleased, yet when I declared my resolu- 
tion to leave her, she burst into tears, and told 
me that I must bear the peevishness of a sick 
bed, and I should find myself remembered in 
her will. I complied, and a codicil was added* 
in my favour ; but in less than a \^'eek, when I 
set her giuel before her, I laid the spoon on the 
left side, and she threw her will into the fire. 
In two days she made another, which she burnt 
in the same maimer, because she could not eat 
her chicken. A third was made, and destroyed 
because she heard a mouse within the wainscot, 
and was sure that I should suifer her to be car- 
ried away alive. After this I was for some 
time out of favour, but as her illness grew upon 
her, resentment and sullenness gave way to 
kinder sentiments. She died, and left me five 
hundred pounds ; with this fortune I am going 
to settle in my native parish, where I resolve to 
spend some hours every day in teaching poor 
girls to read and write. 

I am, Sir, 

Your humble servant, 

Betty Broom. 



THE IDLER. 



32 

No. SO.] Saturday, Nov. 11, 1758. 



The desires of man increase with his acqui- 
sitions ; every step which he advances brings 
something within his view, which he did not 
see before, and which, as soon as he sees it, 
he begins to want. Where necessity ends, 
curiosity begins ; and no sooner are we supplied 
with every thing that nature can demand, 
than we sit down to contrive artificial appe- 
tites. 

By this restlessness of mind, every populous 
and wealthy city is filled with innumerable em- 
ployments, for which the greater part of man- 
kind is without a name ; with artificers, whose 
labour is exerted in producing such petty 
conveniences, that many shops are furnished 
with instruments of which the use can hardly 
be found without inquiry, but which he that 
once knows them quickly learns to number 
among necessary things. 

Such is the diligence with which, in countries 
completely civilized, one part of mankind la- 
bours for another, that wants are supplied faster 
than they can be formed, and the idle and lux- 
urious find life stagnate for want of some de- 
sire to keep it in motion. This species of dis- 
tress furnishes a new set of occupations ; and 
multitudes are busied from day to day, in find- 
ing the rich and the fortunate something to do. 

It is very common to reproach those artists 
as useless, who produce only such superfluities 
as neither accommodate the body, nor improve 
the mind ; and of which no other effect can be 
imagined, than that they are the occasions of 
spending money and consuming time. 

But this censure will be mitigated when it is 
seriously considered that money and time are 
the heaviest burdens of life, and that the un- 
happiest of all mortals are those who have more 
of either than they know, how to use. To set 
himself free from these incumbrances, one 
hurries to Newmarket; another travels over 
Europe ; one pulls down his house and calls 
architects about him; another buys a seat in 
the country, and follows his hounds over hedges 
and through rivers ; one makes collections of 
shells ; and another searches the world for tulips 
and carnations. 

He is surely a public benefactor who finds 
employment for those to whom it is thus diffi- 
cult to find it for themselves. It is true, that 
this is seldom done merely from generosity or 
compassion ; almost every man seeks his own 
advantage in helping others, and therefore it 
is too common for mercenary ofiiciousness 
to consider rather what is grateful, than what 
U right. 

We all know that it is more profitable to be 
loved than esteemed ; and ministers of plea- 



[No. SO. 



sure will always be found, who study to make 
themselves necessary, and to supplant those who 
are practising the same arts. 

One of the amusements of idleness is reading 
without the fatigue of close attention ; and the 
world, therefore, swarms with writers whose 
wish is not to be studied, but to be read. 

No species of literary men has lately been so 
much multiplied as the writers of news. Not 
many years ago the nation was content with 
one gazette ; but iiow we have not only in the 
metropolis papers for every morning and every 
evening, but almost every large town has its 
weekly historian, who regularly circulates his 
periodical intelligence, and fills the villages 
of his district with conjectures on the events 
of war, and with debates on the true interests of 
Europe. 

To write news in its perfection requires such 
a combination of qualities, that a man complete- 
ly fitted for the task is not always to be found. 
In Sir Henry Wotton's jocular definition, ^n 
ambassador is said to be a man of virtue sent abroad 
to tell lies for the advantage of his country ; a news- 
writer is a man without virtue, who writes lies at 
home for hii oum jyrofit. To these compositions is 
required neither genius nor knowledge,neither in- 
dustry nor sprightliness ; but contempt of shame, 
and indifference to truth, are absolutely neces- 
sary. He who by a long familiarity with infamy 
has obtained these qualities, may confidently 
tell to-day what he intends to contradict to- 
morrow; he may affirm fearlessly what he 
knows that he shall be obliged to recant, and 
may write letters from Amsterdam or Dresden 
to himself. 

In a time of war the nation is always of one 
mind, eager to hear something good of them- 
selves, and ill of the enemy. At this time the 
task of news-writers is easy ; they have noth- 
ing to do but to tell that the battle is expected, 
and afterwards that a battle has been fought, in 
j which we and our friends, v/h ether conquering 
or conquered, did aU, and our enemies did noth- 

i ing- 

Scarcely any thing awakens attention like a 
tale of cruelty. The writer of news never fails 
in the intermission of action to tell how the 
enemies murdei'ed children and ravished vir- 
gii.s ; and if the scene of action be some- 
what distant, scalps half the inhabitants of a 
province, 
j Among the calamities of war, may be justly 
j numbered the diminution of the love of truth, 
1 by the falsehoods which interest dictates, and 
i credulity encourages. A peace will equally 
leave the warrior and relator of wars destitute of 
emplojTnent; and I know not whether more 
j is to be dreaded from streets filled with soldiers 
accustomed to plunder, or from gaiTets filled 
with scribblers accustomed to lie. 



No. 31.] 

No. 31.] Saturday, Nov. 18, 1758. 



Many moralists hare remarked, that pride has 
of all human vices the widest dominion, appears 
in the greatest multiplicity of forms, and lies 
hid under the greatest variety of disguises ; 
of disguises which, like the moon's veil of bright- 
ness, are both its lustre and its shade, and be- 
tray it to others, though they hide it from our- 
selves. 

It is not my intention to degrade pride from 
this pre-eminence of mischief ; yet I know not 
whether idleness may not maintain a very 
doubtful and obstinate competition. 

There are some that profess idleness in its 
full dignity, who call themselves the Idle as Bu- 
siris in the play calls himself the Proud ,- who 
boast that they can do nothing, and thank 
their stars that they have nothing to do ; who 
sleep every night till they can sleep no longer, 
and rise only that exercise may enable them to 
sleep again ; who prolong the reign of dai'kness 
by double curtains j and never see the sun but 
to tell him how thei/ hate his beams ; whose whole 
labour is to vary the posture of indulgence, and 
whose day ditfers from their night but as a 
couch or chair differs from a bed. 

These are the true and open votaries of idle- 
ness, for whom she weaves the garlands of pop- 
pies, and into whose cup she pours the waters 
of oblivion ; who exist in a state of unruffled 
stupidity, forgetting and forgotten ; who have 
long ceased to live, and at whose death the sur- 
vivors can only say that they have ceased to 
breathe. 

But idleness predominates in many lives 
where it is not suspected ; for, being a vice 
which terminates in itself, it may be enjoyed 
without injury to others; and it is therefore 
not watched like fraud, which endangers prop- 
erty; or like pride, which naturally seeks its 
gratifications in another's inferiority. Idleness 
is a silent and peaceful quality, that neither 
raises envy by ostentation, nor hatred by opposi- 
tion ; and therefore nobody is busy to censure 
or detect it. 

As pride sometimes is hid under humility, 
idleness is often covered by turbulence aud hur- 
ry. He that neglects his known duty and real 
employment, naturaDy endeavours to crowd his 
mind with something that may bar out the re- 
membrance of his own folly, and does any thing 
but what he ought to do with eager diligence, 
that he may keep himself in his own favour. 

Some are always in a state of preparation, 
occupied in previous measures, forming plans, 
accumulating materials, and providing for the 
main affair. These are certainly under the se- 
cret power of idleness. Nothing is to be expect- 
ed from the workman whose tools are for ever 



THE IDLER. 



to be sought. I was once told by a great mas- 
ter that no man ever excelled in painting, who 
was eminently curious about pencils and col- 
ours. 

There are othei-s to whom idleness dictates 
another expedient, by which life may be passed 
unprofitably away without the tediousness of 
many vacant hours. The art is, to fill the day 
with petty business, to have always something 
in hand which may raise curiosity, but not 
solicitude, and keep the mind in a state of ac- 
tion, but not of labour. 

This art has for many years been practised 
by my old fi-iend Sober with wonderful success. 
Sober is a man of strong desires and quick 
imagination, so exactly balanced by the love of 
ease, that they can seldom stimiilate him to any 
difficult undertaking ; they have, however, so 
much power, that they will not suffer him to lie 
quite at rest ; and though they do not make 
him sufficiently useful to others, they make him 
at least weary of himself. 

Mr. Sober's chief pleasure is conA-ersation ; 
there is no end of his talk or his attention ; to 
speak or to hear is equally pleasing ; for he 
still fancies that he is teaching or learning 
something, and is free for the time from his own 
reproaches. 

But there is one time at night when he must 
go home, that his friends may sleep ; and anoth- 
er time in the morning, when all the world 
agrees to shut out interruption. These are the 
moments of which poor Sober trembles at the 
thought. But the misery of these irksome inter- 
vals tie has many means of alleviating. He has 
persuaded himself that the manual arts are un- 
deservedly overlooked ; he has observed in 
many trades the effects of close thought, and 
just ratiocination. From speculation he pro- 
ceeded to practice, and supplied himself with 
the tools of a carpenter, with which he mended 
his coalbox very successfully, and which he still 
continues to employ, as he finds occasion. 

He has attempted at other times the crafts of 
shoe-maker, tinman, plumber, and potter ; in 
aU these arts he has faUed, and resolves to qual- 
ify himself for them, by better information. 
But his daily amusement is chemistry. He 
has a small furnace, which he employs in distil- 
lation, and which has long been the solace of 
his life. He draTVS oils and •naters and essen- 
ces and spirits, which he knows to be of no use ; 
sits and counts the drops as they come from his 
retort, and forgets that, Avhilst a drop is falling, 
a moment flies away. 

Poor Sober ! I have often teazed him with 
reproof, and he has often promised reformation ; 
for no man is so much open to conviction as the 
Idler, but there is none on which it operates so 
little. "What will be the effect of this paper I 
know not ; perhaps he will read it and laugh, 
and light the fire in his fui'n: ce ; but my hopa 
F 



S4 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 32 



1 



is, that he will quit his hiflos, and betake him- 
Belf to rational and useful diligence. 



^^0. 82. 



] Saturday, Nov. 25, 1758. 



Among the innumerable mortifications that 
waylay human arrogance on every side, may 
well be reckoned our ignorance of the most 
common objects and effects, a defect of which 
we become more sensible, by evei*y attempt to 
supply it. Vulgar and inactive minds confound 
familiarity with knowledge, and conceive them- 
selves informed of the whole nature of things 
when they are shown their form or told their 
use; but the speculatist, who is not content 
Avith superficial views, harasses himself with 
fruitless cui'iosity, and still as he acquires more, 
perceives only that he knows less. 

Sleep is a state in which a great part of every 
life is passed. No animal has yet been discov- 
ered, whose existence is not varied with inter- 
vals of insensibility ; and some late philosophers 
have extended the empire of sleep over the 
vegetable world. 

Yet of this change, so frequent, so great, so 
general, and so necessary, no searcher has yet 
found either the efficient or final cause ; or can 
tell by what power the mind and body are 
thus chained down in irresistible stupefaction ; 
or what benefits the animal receives from this 
alternate suspension of its active powers. 

Whatever may be the multiplicity or contra- 
riety of opinions upon this subject. Nature 
has taken sufficient care that theory shall have 
little influence on practice. The most diligent 
ii^uirer is not able long to keep his eyes 
open; the most eager disputant will begin 
about midnight to desert his ai'gument ; and 
once in four-and-twenty hours, the gay and the 
gloomy, the witty and the dull, the clamorous 
and the silent, the busy and the idle, are all 
overpowered by the gentle tyrant, and all lie 
down in the equality of sleep. 

Philosophy has often attempted to repress in- 
solence, by asserting that all conditions are 
levelled by death ; a position which, however it 
may deject the happy, will seldom afford much 
comfort to the wretched. It is far more pleas- 
ing to consider, that sleep is equally a leveller 
with death ; that the time is never at a great 
distance, when the balm of rest shall be diffused 
alike upon every head, when the diversities of 
life shall stop their operation, and tlie high and 
low shall lie down together. 

It is somewhere recorded of Alexarider, that 
in the pride of conquests, and intoxication of 
flattery, he declared that he only perceived him- 
self to be a man by the necessity of sleep. 
Whether he considered sleep as necessary to his 



mind or body, It was indeed a sufficient evidence 
of human infirmity; the body which I'equired 
such frequency of renovation, gave but faint 
promises of immortality: .and the mind which, 
from time to time, sunk gladly into insensibili- 
ty, had made no very near approaches to the 
felicity of the supreme and self-sufficient nature. 

I know not what can tend more to repi-ess all 
the passions that disturb the peace of the world, 
than the consideration that there is no height 
of happiness or honom* from which man does 1 
not eagerly descend to a state of unconscious re- 
pose; that the best condition of life is such, 
that W8 contentedly quit its good to be disen- 
tangled from its evils; that in a few hours 
splendour fades before the eye, and praise itself 
deadens in the ear ; the senses withdraw from 
their objects, and reason favours the retreat. 

What then arc the hopes and prospects of 
covetousness, ambition, and rapacity? Let him 
that desires most have aU his desires gratified, 
he never shall attain a state which he can fur a 
day and a night contemplate with satisfaction, 
or from which, if he had the power of perpetual 
vigilance, he would not long for periodical 
separations. 

All envy would be extinguished, if it were 
universally known that there are none to be 
envied, and surely none can be much envied 
who are not pleased with themselves. There is 
reason to suspect, that the distinctions of man- 
kind have more show than value, when it is 
found that all agree to be weary alike of pleas- 
lu'es and of cares ; that the powerful and the 
weak, the celebrated and obscure, join in one 
common wish, and implore from Nature's hand 
the nectar of oblivion. 

Such is our desire of abstraction fi-om our- 
selves, that very few are satisfied "with the 
quantity of stupefaction which the needs of the 
body force upon the mind. Alexander himself 
added intemperance to sleep, and solaced with 
the fumes of wine the sovei*eignty of the world ; 
and almost every man has some art by which 
he steals his thoughts away from his present 
state. 

It is not much of life that is spent in close at- 
tention to any important duty. Many hours 
of every day are suffered to fly away without 
any traces left upon the intellects. We suffei 
phantoms to rise up before us, and amuse our- 
selves with the dance of airy images, which, 
after a time, we dismiss for ever, and know not 
how we have been busied. 

Many have no happier moments than thosi 
that they pass in solitude, abandoned to theii 
own imagination, which sometimes puts scep^ 
tres in their hands or mitres on their heads, 
shifts the scene of pleasure with endless variety, 
bids all the fc^rms of beauty sparkle before them, 
and gluts them with every change of visionary 
hixury. 



No. 33] 



THE IDLER. 



35 



It is easy iu these semi-slumbers to collect all 
the pt'ssibilities of happiness, to alter the course 
of the sun, to bring back the past, and anticipate 
the future, to unite all the beauties of all 
seasons, and all the blessings of all climates, to 
receive and bestow felicity, and forget that 
misery is the lot of man. All this is a volun- 
tary dream, a temporary recession from the 
realities of life to airy fictions j an habitual sub- 
jection of reason to fancy. 

Others are afraid to be alone, and amuse 
themselves by a perpetual succession of com- 
panions; but the difference is not great: in 
solitude we have our dreams to ourselves, and 
in company we agree to dream in concert. The 
end sought in both is, forgetfulness of our- 
selves. 



No. 33.] Saturday, Dec. 2, 1758. 



[1 hope the author of the following letter will 
excuse the omission of some parts, and al- 
low me to remark, that the Journal of the 
Citizen in the Spectator has almost precluded 
the attempt of any future writer.] 



-No7i it a Romiili 



Prcescriptum, 4 intonsi Catonis 
Auspiciis, veterumque norma. 



Sir, 



You have often solicited correspondence. I 
have sent you the Journal of a Senior Fellow, 
or Genuine Idler, just transmitted from Cam- 
bridge by a facetious correspondent, and wai'- 
ranted to have been transcribed from the com- 
mon-place book of the journalist. 

Monday, nine o'clock. Turned off my bed- 
maker for waking me at night. Weather rainy. 
Consulted my weather-glass. No hopes of a 
ride before dinner. 

Ditto, ten. After breakfast transcribed half 
a sermon from Dr. Hickman. N. B. Never to 
transcribe any more from Calamy; Mrs. Pil- 
cocks, at my curacy, having one volume of that 
author lying in her parlour- window. 

Ditto, eleven. Went down into my cellar. 
Mem. My mountain will be fit to drink in a 
month's time. N. B. To remove the five year 
old jport into the new bin on the left hand. 

Ditto, twelve. Mended a pen. Looked at 
ray weather-glass again. Quicksilver very low. 
Shaved. Barber's hand shakes. 

Ditto, one. Dined alone in my room on a 
soal. N. B. The shrimp-sauce not so good as 
Mr. H. of Petei'house and I used to eat in 
London last winter, at the Mitre in Fleet- 
street. Sat down to a pint of Madeira. Mr. 
H. surx)rised me over it. We finished two 



bottles of port together, and were A-ery cheerfai. 
Mem. To dine with Mr. H. at Peter hou?-' 
next Wednesday. One of the dishes a leg oi 
pork and peas, by miy desire. 

Ditto, six. Newspaper in the common room. 
Ditto, seven. Returned to my room. Made 
a tiff of warm punch, and to bed before niue ; 
did not fall asleep till ten, a young fellow-com- 
moner being very noisy over my head. 

Tuesday, nine. Rose squeamish. A fine 
morning. Weather-glass very high. 

Ditto, ten. Ordered my horse, and rode to 
the five-mile stone on the Newmarket road. 
Appetite gets better. A pack of hounds in full 
ciy crossed the road, and startled my horse. 

Ditto, twelve. Dressed. Found a letter on 
my table to be in London the 19th inst. Be- 
spoke a new wig. 

Ditto, one. At dinner in the hall. Too 
much water in the soup. Dr. Dry always 
orders the beef to be salted too much for me. 

Ditto, two. In the common-room. Dr. 
Dry gave us an instance of a gentleman who 
kept the gout out of his stomach by drinking old 
Madeira. Convei-sation chiefly on the expedi- 
tions. Company broke up at foxir. Dr. Dry 
and myself played at back-gammon for a brace 
of snipes. Won. 

Ditto, five. At the coffee-house. Met Mr. 
H. there. Could not get a sight of the Moni- 
tor. 

Ditto, seven. Returned home, and stirred 
my fire. Went to the common-room, and sup- 
ped on the snipes with Dr. Dry. 

Ditto, eight. Began the evening in the com- 
mon-room. Dr. Dry told several stories. 
Were very merry. Our new fellow that 
studies physic, very talkative toward twelve. 
Pretends he will bring the youngest Miss — — 
to drink tea with me soon. Impertinent block- 
head! 

Wednesday, nine. Alarmed with a pain iu 
my ankle. Q,. The gout ? Fear I can't dine 
at Peter house ; but I hope a ride will set all to 
rights. Weather-glass belowyair. 

Ditto, ten. Mounted my horse, though the 
weather suspicious. Pain in my ankle entirely 
gone. Catched in a shower coming back. 
Convinced that my weather-glass is the best in 
Cambridge. 

Ditto, twelve. Dressed. Sauntered up to the 
Fishmonger's-hill. Met Mr. H. and went 
with him to Peterhouse. Cook made us wait 
thirty six minutes beyond the time. The com- 
pany, some of my Emanuel friends. For din- 
ner, a pair of soals, a leg of pork and peas 
among other things. Mem. Peas-pudding not 
boiled enough. Cook reprimanded and sconced 
in my presence. 

Ditto, after dinner. I'ain in my ankle re- 
turns. Dull all the afternoon. Rallied for 
being no ccmpauy. Mr. H.'s account of tlie 



36 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 34. 



aooommodatlons on the road in his Biith jour- 
ney. 

Ditto, six. Got into spirits. Never was 
more chatty. We sat late at whist. Mr. H. 
and self agreed at parting to take a gentle ride, 
and dine at the old house on the London road 
to-morrow. 

Thursday, nine. My sempstress. She has 
lost the measure of my wrist. Forced to be mea- 
sured again. The baggage has got a trick of 
smiling. 

Ditto, ten to eleven. Made some rappee- 
snuff. Read the magazines. Received a pres- 
ent of pickles from Miss Piicocks. Mem. 
To send in return some collared eel, which I 
know bjth the old lady and miss are fond of. 

Ditto, eleven. Glass very high. Mounted 
at the gate with Mr. H. Horse skittish and 
wants exercise. Arrive at the old house. All 
the provisions bespoke by some rakish fellow- 
commoner in the next room, who had been on 
a scheme to Newmarket. Could get nothing 
but mutton chops off the worst end. JPort 
very new. Agree to try some other house to- 
morrow. 

Here the Journal breaks off: for the next 
morning, as my friend infoi'ms me, our genial 
academic was waked with a severe fit of the 
gout ; and, at present, enjoys all the dignity of 
that disease. But I believe we have lost no- 
thing by this interruption ; since a continuation 
of the remainder of the Journal, through the 
remainder of the week, would most probably 
have exhibited nothing more than a repeated 
relation of the same circumstances of idling and 
luxury. 

I hope it will not be concluded, from this 
specimen of academic life, that I have attempted 
to decry our universities. If literature is not 
the essential requisite of the modern academic, 
I am yet persuaded that Cambridge and Ox- 
ford, however degenerated, surpass the fashion- 
able academies of our metropolis, and the 
gymnasia of foreign countries. The number of 
learned persons in these celebrated seats is still 
considerable, and more conveniences and oppor- 
tunities for study still subsist in them, than 
in any other place. There is at least one very 
powerful incentive to learning ; I mean the 
Genius of the place. It is a sort of inspiring 
deity, which every youth of quick sensibility 
and ingenious disposition creates to himself, by 
reflecting, that he is placed under those vener- 
able walls, where a Hooker and a Hammond, a 
Bacon and a Newton, once pursued the same 
course of science, and from whence they soared 
to the most elevated heights of literary fame. 
This is that incitement which Tully, according 
to his own testimony, experienced at Athens, 
when he contemplated the porticos where So- 
crates sut, and tho 'aurel-groves where Plato dis- 



puted. But there arc other circumstances., and 
of the highest importance, which render our 
colleges superior to all other places of educatio'i. 
Their institutions, although somewhat fallei; 
from their primaeval simplicity, are such as in- 
fluence, in a particular manner, the moi'al con- 
duct of their youth ; and in this general depra- 
vity of manners and laxity of principles, pure re- 
ligion is no where more strongly inculcated. 
The academies, as they are presumptuously 
styled, are too low lo be mentioned : and foreign 
seminaries are likely to prejudice the unwary 
mind with Calvinism. But English universi- 
ties render their students virtuous, at least by 
excluding all opportunities of vice ; and, by 
teaching them the principles of the church 
of England, confirm them iu those of true 
Christianity. 



No. 34] Saturday, Dec. 9, 1758. 



To illustrate one thing by its resemblance to 
another, has been always the most popular and 
efiicacious art of instruction. There is indeed 
no other method of teaching that of which any 
one is ignorant, but by means of something al- 
ready known ; and a mind so enlarged by con- 
templation and inquirj', that it has always 
many objects within its view, will seldom be 
long without some near and familiar image 
through which an easy transition may be made 
to truths more distant and obscure. 

Of the parallels which have been drawn by 
wit and curiosity, some are literal and real, 
as between poetrj' and painting, two arts which 
pursue the same end, by the operation of the 
same zaental faculties, and which differ only as 
the one represents things by marks permanent 
and natural, the other by signs accidental and 
arbitrary. The one therefore is more easily 
and generally understood, since similitude of 
form is immediately perceived ; the other is 
capable of conveying more ideas ; for men have 
thought and spoken of many things which they 
do not see. 

Other parallels are fortuitous and fanciful, 
yet these have sometimes been extended to mauy 
particulars of resemblance by a lucky concur- 
rence of diligence and chance. The animal 
body is composed of many members, united un- 
der the direction of one mind ; any number 
of individuals, connected for some common pur- 
pose, is therefore called a body. From this 
participation of the same appellation arose the 
comparison of the body natural and body po- 
litic, of which, how far soever it has been de- 
duced, no end has hitherto been found. 

In these imaginary similitudes, the same wore 
is used at once in its primitive and metaphori- 



THE IDLER. 



S7 



Thus health, ascribed to the body na- 
tural, is opposed to sickness; but attributed to 
the body politic stands as contrary to adversity.. 
These parallels, therefore, have more of genius, 
out less of truth ; they often please, but they 
never convince. 

Of this kind is a curious speculation frequent- 
ly indulged by a philosopher of my acquaint- 
ance, who had discovered, that the qualities re- 
quisite to conversation are very exactly repre- 
sented by a bowl of punch. 

Punch, says this profound investigator, is a 
liquor compounded of spirit and .icid juices, 
sugar and water. The spirit, volatile and fiery, 
is the proper emblem of vivacity and wit ; the 
acidity of the lemon will very aptly figure pun- 
gency of raillery, and aci'imony of censure ; 
sugar is the natural representative of luscious 
adulation and gentle complaisance; and water 
is the proper hieroglyphic of easy prattle, inno- 
cent and tasteless. 

Spirit alone is too powerful for use. It will 
produce madness rather than merriment ; and 
instead of quenching thirst will inflame the 
blood. Thus wit, too copiously poured out, 
agitates the hearer with emotions rather violent 
than pleasing ; every one shrinks from the force 
of its oppression, the company sits entranced 
and overpowered ; all are astonished, but nobody 
is pleased. 

The acid juices give this genial liquor all its 
power of stimulating the palate. Conversation 
would become dull and vapid, if negligence wei'e 
not sometimes roused, and sluggishness quicken- 
ed by due severity of reprehension. But acids 
unmixed will distort the face and torture the 
palate ; and he that has no other qualities than 
penetration and asperity, he whose constant 
employment is detection and censure, who looks 
only to find faults, and speaks only to publish 
them, will soon be dreaded, hated, and avoided. 

The taste of sugar is generally pleasing, but 
it cannot long be eaten by itself. Thus meek- 
ness and courtesy will always recommend the 
first address, but soon pall and nauseate, unless 
they ai*e associated with more sprightly quali- 
ties. The chief use of sugar is to temper the 
taste of other substances; and softness of be- 
haviour in the same manner mitigates the 
roughness of contradiction, and allays the bitter- 
ness of vnwelcome truth. 

Water is the universal vehicle by which are 
conveyed the particles necessary to sustenance 
and growth, by which thirst is quenched, and 
nil the wants of life and nature are supplied. 
Thus all the business of the world is transacted 
by artless and easy talk, neither sublimed by 
fancy, nor discoloured by aiFectation, without 
either the harshness of satire, or the luscious- 
ness of flattery. By this limpid vein of lan- 
guage, curiosity is gratified, and all the know- 
ledge is conveyed which one man is rcquii'ed 



to impart for the safety or convenience of 
, another. Water is the only ingredient in punch 
which can be used alone, and with which man 
is content till fancy has fi-amed an artificial 
want. Thus while we only desire to have our 
ignorance informed, we are most delighted with 
the plainest diction ; and it is only in the mo- 
ments of idleness or pride, that we call for the 
gratifications of wit or flattery. 

He only will please long, who by tempering 
the acidity of satire with the sugar of civility, 
and allaying the heat of wit with the frigidity 
of humble chat, can make the ti'ue punch of 
j conversation ; and as that punch can be drank 
, in the gi-eatest quantity which has the largest 
proportion of water, so that companion will be 
oftenest welcome, whose talk flows out with 
inoffensive copiousness, and unenvied insipidity. 



No. 35.1 Saturday, Dec. 16, 1758. 



TO THE IDLER. 

Mr. Ir»r,ER, 
If it be difficult to persuade the idle to be busy, 
it is likewise, as experience has taught me, not 
easy to convince the busy that it is better to be 
idle. When you shall despair of stimulating 
sluggishness to motion, I hope you will turn 
your thoughts towards the means of stilling the 
bustle of pernicious activity. 

I am the unfortunate husband of a buyer of 
bargains. My wife has somewhere heard that a 
good housewife never has any thing to purchase 
when it is wanted. This maxim is often in her 
mouth, and always in her head. She is not one 
of those philosophical talkers that speculate 
without practice, and learn sentences of wis- 
dom only to repeat them ; she is always making 
additions to her stores ; she never looks into a 
bi'oker's shop, but she spies something that 
may be wanted some time ; and it is impossible 
to make her pass the door of a house where she 
hears goods selling by auction. 

Whatever she thinks cheap, she holds it the 
duty of an economist to buy ; in consequence of 
this maxim, we are encumbered on every side 
with useless lumber. The servants can scarcely 
creep to their beds through the chests and boxes 
that surround them. The cai-penter is em- 
ployed once a week in building closets, fixing 
cupboai'ds, and fastening shelves ; and my house 
has the appearance of a ship stored for a voyage 
to the colonies. 

I had often observed that advertisements set 
her on fire; and therefore, pretending to emu- 
late her laudable frugality, I forbade the news- 
paper to be taken any longer ; but my precau- 
tion is vain : I know not by what fatality, or 



S8 



THE IDLER. 



CNo. 36 



by what confederacy, every catalogue of getiu- 
ine furniture comes to her hand, every adver- 
tisement of a newspaper newly opened is in her 
pocket-book, and she knows before any of her 
neighbours when the stock of any man leav- 
ing off trade is to be sold cheap for ready money. 

Such intelligence is to my dear-one the Sir- 
en's song. No engagement, no duty, no inter- 
est, can withhold her from a sale, from which 
she always returns congratulating herself upon 
her dexterity at a bargain ; the porter lays down 
Lis burden in the hall ; she displays her new 
acquisitions, and spends the rest of the day in 
contriving where they shall be put. 

As she cannot bear to have any thing incom- 
I)lete, one purchase necessitates another ; she 
has twenty feather-beds more than she can use, 
and a late sale has supplied her with a propor- 
tionable number of Witney blankets, a large 
roll of linen for sheets, and five quilts for every 
bed, which she bought because the seller told 
her, that if she would clear his hands he would 
let her have a bargain. 

Thus by hourly encroachments my habita- 
tion is made narrower and narrower ; the din- 
ing-room is so crowded with tables, that dinner 
scarcely can be served ; the parlour is decorated 
with so many piles of china, that I dare not 
step within the door ; at every turn of the 
stairs I have a clock, and half the windows of 
the upper floors are darkened, that shelves may 
be set before them. 

This^ however, might be borne, if she would 
gratify her own inclinations without opposing 
mine. But I, who am idle, am luxurious, 
and she condemns me to live upon salt provision. 
She knows the loss of buying in small quanti- 
ties, we have therefore whole hogs and quarters 
of oxen. Part of our meat is tainted before it is 



She is always imagining some distant time in 
which she shall use whatever she accumulates ; 
she has four looking-glasses which she cannot 
hang up in her house, but which will be hand- 
some in more lofty rooms ; and pays rent for 
the place of a vast copper in some warehouse, 
because when we live in the country we shaU 
brew our own beer. 

Of this life I have long been weary, but I 
know not how to change it ; all the married 
men whom Tconsult advise me to have patience ; 
but some old bachelors are of opinion, that since 
she loves sales so well, she should have a sale 
of her own ; and I have, I think, resolved to 
open her hoax'ds, and advertise an auction. 
I am Sir, 

- Your very humble Servant, 
Peter Plenty. 



No. 36.] Saturday, Dec. 23, 1758. 



The great diflferences that disturb the peace of 
mankind are not about ends, but means. We 
have all the same general desires, but how those 
desires shall be accomplished will for ever be dis- 
puted. The ultimate purpose of government is 
temporal, and that of religion is eternal happiness. 
Hitherto we agree ; but here we must part to 
try according to- the endless vaiieties of passion 
and understanding combined with one another, 
every possible form of government, and every 
imaginable tenet of religion. 

We are told by Cumberland that rectitude, 
applied to action or contemplation, is merely 
metaphorical ; and that as a right line describes 
the shortest passage from point to point, so a 



saten, and part is thrown away because it is j right action effects a good design by the fewest 



•polled, but she persists in her system, and will 
aever buy any thing by single pennyworths. 

The common vice of those who are still gras- 
ping at more, is to neglect that which they already 
possess ; but from this failing my charmer is 
free. It is the great care of her life that the 
pieces of beef should be boiled in the order in 
which they are bought ; that the second bag of 
peas should not be opened till the first were 
eaten ; that every feather-bed shall be lain on 
in its turn ; that the carpets should be taken 
•nt of the chests once a month and brushed ; 
and the rolls of linen opened now and then 
Before the fire. She is daily inquiring after 
the best traps for mice, and keeps the rooms 
always scented by fumigations to destroy the 



means ; and so likewise a right opinion is that 
which connects distant truths by the shortest 
train of intermediate propositions. 

To find the nearest way from truth to truth, 
or from purpose to effect, not to use more in- 
struments where fewer will be sufficient, not 
to move by wheels and levers what will give 
way to the naked hand, is the great proof of a 
healthful and vigorous mind, neither feeble 
with healthful ignorance, nor overburdened 
with untvieldy knowledge. 

But there are men who seem to think n 
thing so much the characteristic of a genius, as 
to do common things in an uncommon manner ; 
like Hudibras, to tell the clock by algebra ; or 
like the lady in Dr. Young's satires, to drink 



moths. She employs a workman from time to tea by stratagem ; to quit the beaten track only 
time to adjust six clocks that never go, and because it is kno^vnj and take a new path, how- 
clean five jacks that rust in the garret ; and a ever crooked or rough, because the straight was 



•woman in the nest alley that lives by scoui-ing 
the brass and pewter, which are only laid up to 
tarnish again. . 



found out before. 

Every man speaks and writes with intent to 
be understood J and it can seldom happen but 



No. 37.] 



THE IDLER. 



S9 



he that understands himself might convey his 
notions to another, if, content to be understood, 
06 did not seek to he admired 5 but when once 
ne begins to contrive how his sentiments may 
be received, not with most ease to bis reader, 
but with most advantage to himself, he then 
transfers his consideration from words to sounds, 
from sentences to periods, and as he grows more 
elegant becomes less intelligible. 

Ft is difficult to enumerate every species of 
authors whose labours counteract themselves ; 
the man of exuberance and copiousness, who 
diffuses every thouglit through so many diversi- 
ties of expression, that it is lost like water in a 
mist; the ponderous dictator of sentences, whose 
notions are delivered in the lump, and are, like 
uncoined bullion, of more weight than use ; the 
liberal illustrator, who shows by examples 
and comparisons what was cleai-ly seen when 
it was first proposed ; and the stately son 
of demonstration, who proves with mathemat- 
ical formality what no man has yet pretended 
to doubt. 

There is a mode of style for which 1 know not 
that the masters of oratory have yet found a 
name ; a style by which the most evident truths 
are so obscured, that they can no longer be per- 
ceived, and the most familiar propositions so dis- 
guised that they cannot be known. Every other 
kind of eloquence is the dress of sense; but 
this is the mask by which a true master of 
his art will so effectually conceal it, that a 
man wiU as easily mistake his o^vn positions, if 
he meets them thus transformed, as he may 
pass in a masquerade his nearest acquaintance. 

This style may be called the terrific, for its 
chief intention is, to ten-ify and amaze ; it may 
be termed the repulsive, for its natui-al effect is 
to drive away the reader ; or it may be distin- 
guished, in plain English, by the denomination 
of the bugbear style, for it has more terror than 
dangei', and will appear less formidable as it is 
more nearly approached. 

A mother tells her infant that two and two 
make four ; the child remembers the i)roposition, 
and is able to count four to all the purposes of 
life, till the course of his education brings him 
among philosophers who fright hiin from his 
fonner knowledge, by telling him, that four is 
a certain aggregate of units ; that all numbers 
being only the repetition of an unit, which, 
though not a number itself, is the i>arent, root, 
or original of all number, four is the denomina- 
tion assigned to a certain number cf such repe- 
titions. The only danger is, lest, when he first 
hears these dreadful sounds, the pupil should 
run away ; if he has but the courage to stay 
till the conclusion, he will find that, when spe^-- 
ulation has done its v/orst, two and two still 
lake four. 

An illustrious example of this species of elo- 
iUt-nce may be fcuiid in Letters concerning 



Mind. The author begins by declaring, that 
"the sort? of things are things that now are, have 
been, and shall be, and the things that strictly 
are." In this position, except the last clause, 
in which he uses something of the scholastic 
language, there is nothing but what every man 
has heard and imagines himself to know. But 
who would not believe that some wonderful 
novelty is presented to his intellect when he is 
afterwards told, in the true bugbear style, 
that " the ares, in the former sense, are things 
that lie between the have-beens and the shaU-bes. 
The liave-beens are things that are past ; the 
shaU-bes ive tilings that are to come ; and the 
things that are, in the latter sense, are things 
that have not been, nor shall be, nor stand in the 
midst of such as are before them, or shall be 
after them. The things that have been, and 
shall be, have respect to present, past, and fu- 
ture. Those likewise that now ai-e have more- 
over place ; that, for instance, which is here, 
that which is to the east, that which is to the 
west." 

All this, my dear reader, is veiy strange ; but 
though it be strange, it is not new; sur- 
vey these wonderful sentences again, and they 
will be found to contain nothing more, than 
very plain truths, which till this author arose 
had always been delivered in plain language. 

No. 37.] Saturday, Dec. 30, 175S. 

Those who are skilled in the extraction and 
preparation of metals, declare, that iron is every 
where to be found ; and that not only its pro- 
per ore is copiously treasured in the cav« rns of 
the earth, but that its particles are dispersed 
throughout all other bodies. 

If the extent of the human view could com- 
prehend the whole frame of the universe, I be- 
lieve it would be found invariably true, that 
Providence has given that in greatest plenty, 
which the condition of life makes of greatest 
use ; and that nothing is penuriously imparted 
or placed far from the reach of man, of which a 
more liberal distribution, or more easy acquis- 
ition, would increase real and rational felicity. 

Iron is common, and gold is rare. Iron con- 
tributes so much to supply the wants of nature, 
that its use constitutes much of the difference 
between savage and polished life, between the 
state of him that slumbers in European palaces, 
and him that shelters himself in the cavities of a 
rock from the chillness of the night, or the vio- 
lence of the storm. Gold can never be harden- 
ed into saws or axes; it can neither furnish 
instruments of manufacture, utensils of agri- 
culture, nor weapons of defence ; its only qual- 
ity is to shine, and the value of its lustre arises 
from its scai'citj . 

Throughout ihe wiiole circle, both of natuj-al 



40 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 38. 



and moral life, necessaries are as iron, and su- 
perfluities as gold. What we really need we 
may readily obtain; so readily, that far the 
greater part of mankind has, in the wantonness 
of abundance, confounded natural with artifi- 
cial desires, and invented necessities for the sake 
of employment, because the mind is impatient 
of inaction, and life is sustained with so little 
labour, that the tediousness of idle time cannot 
otherwise be supported. 

Thus plenty is the original cause of many of 
our needs ; and even the poverty, which is so 
frequent and distressful in civilized nations, 
proceeds often from that change of manners 
which opulence has produced. Nature makes 
us poor only when we want necessai'ies ; but 
custom gives the name of poverty to the want 
of superfluities. 

When Socrates passed through shops of toys 
and ornaments, he cried out, How many things 
are here which I do not need ! And the same ex- 
clamation may every man make who surveys 
the common accommodations of life. 

Superfluity and difficulty begin together. To 
dress food for the stomach is easy, the art is to 
irritate the palate when the stomach is sufficed. 
A rude hand may build walls, form roofs, and 
lay floors, and provide all that warmth and se- 
curity require ; we only call the nicer artificers 
to carve the cornice, or to paint the ceilings. 
iSuch dress as may enable the body to endure 
the difterent seasons, the most unenlightened 
nations have been able to procure : but the work 
of science begins in the ambition of distinction, 
in vai'iations of fashion, and emulation of ele- 
gance. Corn grows with easy culture; the 
gardener's experiments are only employed to 
exalt the flavours of fruits, and brighten the 
colours of flowers. 

Even of knowledge, those parts are most easy 
which are generally necessaiy. The intercourse 
of society is maintained without the elegances 
of language. Figures, criticisms, and refine- 
ments, are the work of those whom idleness 
makes weary of themselves. The commerce of 
the world is carried on by easy methods of com- 
putation. Subtilty and study are required only 
when questions are invented merely to puzzle, 
and calculations are extended to show the skill 
of the calculator. The light of the sun is 
equally beneficial to him whose eyes tell him 
that it moves, and to him whose reason per- 
suades him that it stands stiU; and plants 
grow with the same luxiu'iance, whether we 
suppose earth or water the parent of vegeta- 
tion. 

If we raise our thoughts to nobler inquiries, 
we shall still find facility concurring with use- 
fulness. No man needs stay to be virtuous till 
the moralists have determined the essence of 
virtue ; our duty is made apparent by its proxi- 
mate consequences, *Ti'>^gh the general and ul- 



timate reason should never be discovered. Re 
ligion may regulate the life of liim to whom the 
Scotists and Thomists arc alike unknown ; and 
the assertors of fate and free-will, however 
different in their talk, agree to act in the same 
manner. 

It is not my intention to depreciate the 
politer arts or abstruser studies. That curiosity 
which always succeeds ease and plenty, was un 
doubtedly given us as a proof of capacity which 
our present state is not able to fill, as a prepara- 
tive for some better mode of existence, which 
shall furnish employment for the whole soul, and 
where pleasure shall be adequate to our powers 
of fruition. In the mean time let us gratefully 
acknowledge that goodness which grants us ease 
at a cheap rate, which changes the seasons 
Avhere the nature of heat and cold has n«tbeen 
yet examined, and gives the vicissitudes of day 
and night to those who never mai'ked the tro 
pics, or numbered the constellations. 



No. 38.1 Saturday, Jan. 6, 1759. 



Since the publication of the letter concerning 
the condition of those who are confined in gaols 
by their creditors, an inquiry is said to have 
been made, by which it appears that more thaa 
twenty thousand* are at this time prisoners 
for debt. 

We often look with indifference on the suc- 
cessive parts of that, which, if the whole were 
seen together, would shake us witn emotion; 
A debtor is dragged to prison, pitied jor a mo- 
ment, and then forgotten ; another follows him, 
and is lost alike in the caverns of oblivion ; but 
when the whole mass of calamity rises up at 
once, when twenty thousand reasonable beings 
are heard all groaning in unnecessary misery, 
not by the infirmity of nature, but the mistake 
or negligence of policy, who can forbear to pity 
and lament, to wonder and abhor ! 

There is here no need of declamatory vehe 
mence : we live in an age of commerce and com- 
putation ; let us therefore coolly inquire what is 
the sum of evil which the imprisonment o- 
debtors brings upon our country. 

It seems to be the opinion of the later compuv 
tists, that the inhabitants of England do nol 
exceed six millions, of which twenty thousand 
is the three hundredth part. What shall we say 
of the humanity or the wisdom of a nation, that 
voluntarily sacrifices one in every three hundred 
to lingering destruction ! 

The misfortunes of an individual do not ex- 



» This number was at that time confidently pub- 
lished ; but the author has since foi^nd reason to 
question the calfl-^'^ou 



No. 38. 



THE IDLER. 



41 



j tend thcJr infiuence to many; yet if we con- 
sider the effects of consan^nity and friendship, 
and the general reciprocation of wants and 
I benefits, which make one man dear or necessary 
to another, it may reasonably be supposed, that 
every man languishing in prison gives trouble 
of some kind to two others who love or need 
him. By this multiplication of misery we see 
distress extended to the hundredth part of the 
whole society. 

If we estimate at a shilling a day what is lost 
by the inaction and consumed in the support 
of each man thus chained down to involun- 
tary idleness, the public loss will rise in one 
year to three hundred thousand pounds ; in ten 
years to more than a sixth part of our circulat- 
ing coin. 

I am afraid that those who ai'e best acquaint- 
ed with the state of our prisons will confess that 
my conjecture is too near the truth, when I 
suppose that the corrosion of resentment, the 
heaviness of sorrow, the corruption of confined 
ah", the want of exercise, and sometimes of food, 
the contagion of diseases, from which there is 
no retreat, and the severity of tjTants, against 
whom there can be no resistance, and all tht 
complicated horrors of a prison, put an end 
every year to the life of one in four of those thai 
are shut up from the common comforts of hu- 
man life. 

Thus perish yearly five thousand men, over- 
borne with sorrow, consumed by famine, oi 
putrified by filth ; many of them in the most 
vigorou3 and useful part of lile; for the 
thoughtless and imprudent are commonly young, 
and the active and busy are seldom old- 
According to the rule generally received, 
which supposes that one in thirty dies yearly, 
the race of man may be said to be renewed at 
the end of thirty years. Who would have be- 
lieved till now, that of every English genera- 
tion, a hundred and fifty thousand perish in 
our gaols ! that in every century, a nation em- 
inent for science, studious of commerce, ambi- 
tious of empire, should willingly lose, in 
noisome dungeons, five hundred thousand of its 
inhabitants; a number gi'eater than has ever 
been destroyed in the same time by the pesti- 
lence and sword ! 

A very iate occurrence may show us the value 
of the number which we thus condemn to be 
useless ; in the re-establishment of the trained 
bauds, thirty thousand are considered as a force 
sufficient against all exigencies. While, there- 
fore, we detain twenty thousand in prison, we 
shut up in darkness and uselessness two thirds 
of an army which ourselves judge equal to the 
defence of our country. 

The monastic institutions have been often 
blamed as tending to retard the increase of man- 
kind. And perhaps retirement ought rarely to 
be permitted, exctpt to those whose employ- 



ment is consistent with abstraction, and who, 
though solitary, will not be idle : to those whom 
infirmity makes useless to the commonwealth, 
or to those who have paid their due proportion 
to society, and who, having lived for others, 
may be honourably dismiissed to live for them- 
selves. But whatever be the evil or the folly of 
these retreats, those hare no right to censure them 
whose prisons contain gi^eater numbers thaa 
the monasteries of other countries. It is, sure- 
ly, less foolish and less criminal to permit inac- 
tion than compel it ; to comply with doubtful 
opinions of happiness, than condemn to certain 
and apparent misery; to indulge the extrava- 
gances of erroneous piety, than to multiply and 
enforce temptations to wickedness. 

The misery of gaols is not half their evil : 
they are filled with every corruption which 
poverty and wickedness can generate between 
them; with all the shameless and profligate 
enormities that can be produced by the impu- 
dence of ignominy, the rage of want, and the 
malignity of despair. In a prison, the awe of 
the public eye is lost, and the power of the law 
is spent; there are few fears, there are no 
blushes. The lewd inflame the lewd, the auda- 
cious harden the audacious. Every one fortifies 
himself as he can against his own sensibility, 
endeavours to practise on others the arts which 
are practised on himself; and gains the kind- 
ness of his associates by similitude of manners. 

Thus some sink amidst their misery, and 
others survive only to propsigate villany. It 
may be hoped, that our lawgivers will at length 
take away from us this power of starving and 
depraving one another; but, if there be any 
i-eason why this inveterate evil should not be 
removed in our age, which true policy has en- 
lightened beyond any former time, let those, 
whose writings form the opinions and the prac- 
tices of their contemporaries, endeavour to 
transfer the reproach of such imprisonment 
from the debtor to the creditor, till universal 
infamy shall pm-suc the wretch whose wanton- 
ness of power, or revenge of disappointment, 
condemns another to torture and to ruin ; tiU he 
shall be hunted through the world as an enemy 
to man, and find in riches no shelter from con- 
tempt. 

Surely, he whose debtor has perished in 
prison, although he may acquit himself of deli- 
berate murder, must at least have his mind 
clouded with discontent, when he considers 
how much another has suffered from him; 
wlten he thinks on the wife bewailing her hus- 
band, or the children begging the bread which 
their father would have earned. If there are 
any made so obdurate by avarice or cruelty, as 
to revolve these consequences without dread or 
pity, I must leave them to be awakened by 
some other power, for I write only to human 
beings. 
G 



42 THE IDLER. 

No. 39.] Satuiiday, Jak. 13, 17o9. 



[No. 39. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



As none look more diligently about them than 
thos3 who have nothing to do, or who do no- 
thing, I suppose it has not escaped your observa- 
tion, that the bracelet, an ornament of great an- 
tiquity, has been for some years revived among 
the English ladies. 

The genius of our nation is said, I know not 
for what reason, to appear rather in improve- 
ment than invention. The bracelet was known 
in the earliest ages ; but it ^vs^s formerly only 
a hoop of gold, or a cluster of jewels, and showed 
nothing but the wealth or vanity of the wearer ; 
till our ladies, by carrying pictures on their 
wrists, made their ornaments works of fancy 
and exercises of judgment. 

This addition of art to luxury is one of the in- 
numerable proofs that might be given of the late 
increase of female erudition; and I have often 
congratulated myself that my life has happen- 
ed at a time when those, on whom so much 
of human felicity depends, have learned to 
think as well as speak, and when respect takes 
possession of the ear, while love is entering at 
the ?ye. 

I have observed, that even by the suffrages of 
their own sex, those ladies are accounted wisest 
who do not yet disdain to be taught ; and there- 
fore, I shall offer a few hints for the completion 
of the bracelet, without any dread of the fate of 
Orpheus. 

To the ladies who wear the pictures of their 
husbands or children, or any other relations, I 
can offer nothing more decent or more proper. 
It is reasonable to believe that she intends at 
least to perfonn her duty, who carries a perpet- 
ual excitement to recollection and caution, 
whose own ornaments must upbraid her with 
every failure, and who, by an open violation 
^of her engagements, must for ever foi'feit her 
bracelet. 

Yet 1 know not whether it is the interest of 
the husband to solicit very earnestly a place on 
the bracelet. If his image be not in the heart, 
it is of small avail to hang it on the hand. A 
husband encircled with diamonds and rubies 
may gain some esteem, but will never excite 
love. He that thinks himself most secure of 
fcis wife, should be fearful of persecuting her 
continually with his presence. The joy of life 
is variety ; the tenderest Ioa'c requires to be re- 
kindled by intervals of absence ; and fidelity 
herself will be wearied with transferring her eye 
only from the same man to the same picture. 

In many countries the condition of every wo- 
man is known by her dress. Marriage is re- 
warded with some honourable distinction which 



cell! acy is forbidden to usurp. Some such in- 
formation a bracelet might afford. The ladies 
might enrol themselves in distinct classes, and 
carry in open view the emblems of their or- 
der. The bracelet of the authoress may exhibit 
the muses in a grove of laurel ; the housewife 
may show Penelope with her web ; the votaress 
of a single life may carry Ursula with her troop 
of virgins ; the gamester may have Fortune 
with her wheel ; and those women that have 
no character at all, may display a field of white 
enamel, as imploring help to fill up the vacui- 
ty. 

There is a set of ladies who have outlived 
most animal pleasures, and having nothing ra- 
ti(mal to put in their place, solace with cards the 
loss of what time has taken away, and the want 
of what wisdom, having never been courted, has 
never given. For these, I know not how to 
provide a proper decoration. They cannot be 
numbered among the gamesters : for though 
they are always at play, they play for nothing, 
and never rise to the dignity of hazard or the 
reputation of skill. They neither love nor are 
loved, and cannot be supposed to contemplate any 
human image with delight. Yet though they 
despair to please, they always wish to be fine, 
and therefore cannot be without a bracelet. To 
this sisterhood I can recommend nothing more 
likely to please them than the king of clubs, a 
personage very comely and majestic, who Avill 
never meet their eyes without reviving the 
thought of some past or future party, and who 
may be displayed in the act of dealing v/ith 
grace and propriety. 

But the bracelet which might be most easily 
introduced into general use is a small convex 
mirror, in which the lady may see herself when- 
ever she shall lift her hand. This will be a 
perpetual source of delight. Other ornaments 
are of use only in public, but this will furnish 
gratifications to'solitude. This will show a face 
that must always please ; she who is followed 
by admirers will carry about her a perpetual 
justification of the public voice ; and she who 
passes without notice may appeal from preju- 
dice to her own eyes. 

But 1 know not why the privilege of the 
bracelet should be confined to women ; it was 
in former ages worn by heroes in battle ; and 
as modern soldiers are al\\'ays distinguished 
by splendour of dress, I should rejoice to see 
the bracelet added to the cockade. 

In hope of this ornamental innovation, I have 
spent some thoughts upon military bracelets. 
There is no passion more heroic than love; and 
therefore I should be glad to see the sons of Eng- 
land marching in the field, every man with the 
picture of a woman of honour bound upon his 
hand. But since in the army, as every where else, 
there will always be men who love nobody but 
themselves, or whom no woman of honour will 



No. 40.1 



THE IDLER. 



h3 



permit to love her, there is a necessity of some 
other distinctions and devices. 

I have read of a prince who, having lost,a 
town, ordered the name of it to he every morn- 
ing shouted in his ear till it should he recovered. 
For the same purpose I think the prospect of 
Minorca might he properly worn on the hands 
of some of our generals: others might delight 
their countrymen, and dignify themselves with 
a view of Rochefort as it appeared to them at 
sea: and those that shall return from the con- 
quest of America, may exhibit the warehouse 
of Frontenac, with an inscription denoting that 
it was taken in less than three years hy less 
than twenty thousand men. 

I am, Sir, &c. 

Toil Tot. 



No. 40.] Saturday, Jan. 20, 1759. 



The practice of appending to the naiTatives of 
public transactions more minute and domestic 
intelligence, and filling the newspapers with 
advertisements, has grown up hy slow degrees 
to its present state. 

Genius is shown only by invention. The 
man who first took advantage of the general 
curiosity that was excited by a siege or battle, 
to betray the readers of news into the know- 
ledge of the shop where the best puffs and 
powder were to be sold, was undoubtedly a man 
of great sagacity and profound skill in the na- 
ture of man. But when he had once shown 
the w^ay, it was easy to follow him; and every 
man no^v knows a ready method of infonning 
.the public of all that he desires to buy or sell, 
whether his wares be material or intellectual; 
whether he makes clothes, or teaches the mathe- 
matics; whether he be a tutor that wants a pu- 
pil, or a pupil that wants a tutor. 

Whatever is common is despised. Adver- 
tisements are now so numerous that they are 
very negligently perused, and it is therefore be- 
come necessary to gain attention by magnifi- 
cence of promises; and by eloquence sometimes 
sublime and sometimes pathetic. 

Promise, large promise, is the soul of an ad- 
vertisement. I remember a wash-ball that had 
a quality truly wonderful — it gave an exquisite 
edge to the razor. And there are now to be 
sold, << for ready money only, some duvets for 
bed coverings, of down, beyond comparison, 
superior to what is called otter-down, and in- 
deed such, that its many excellences cannot be 
here set forth." With one excellence we are 
made acquainted — " it is warmer than four or 
five blankets, and lighter than one." 

There are some, however, that know the 
prejudice of mankind In favour of modest sin- 



cerity. The vender of the beautifying fluid sells 
a lotion that repels pimples, washes away 
freckles, smooths the skin, and plumps the flesh : 
and yet, with a generous abhoiTence of ostenta- 
tion, confesses, that it will not "restore the 
bloom of fifteen to a lady of fifty." 

The true pathos of advertisements must have 
sunk deep into the heart of every man that re- 
members the zeal sho^vn by the seller of the 
anodyne necklace, . for the ease and safety of 
poor toothing infants, and the affection with 
which he warned every mother, that " she 
would never forgive herself" if her infant 
should perish without a necklace. 

I cannot but remark to the celebrated author 
who gave, in his notifications of the camel and 
dromedary, so many specimens of the genuine 
sublime, that there is now arrived another sub- 
ject yet more worthy of his pen. " A famous 
3Iohawk Indian warrior, who took Dieskaw 
tlie French general prisoner, dressed in the 
same manner with the native Indians wlieii 
they go to war, with his face and body painted, 
with his scalping-knife, tom-ax and all other 
implements of war ! a sight worthy the curios- 
ity of every true Briton!" This is a very 
powerful description : but a critic of great re- 
finement would say, that it conveys rather 
horror than ten'or. An Indian, dressed as he 
goes to war, may bring company together; but 
if he carries the scalping knife, and tom-ax, 
there are many true Britons that will never be 
persuaded to see him but through a grate. 

It has been remarked by the severer judges, 
that the salutary sorrow of tragic scenes is too 
soon effaced by the meiTiment of the epilogue ; 
the same inconvenience arises from the impro- 
per disposition of advertisements. The noblest 
objects may be so associated as to be made ridi- 
culous. The camel and dromedary themselves 
might have lost much of their dignity between 
" the true flower of mustard and the original 
Daffy's elixir;" and I could not but feel some 
indignation, when I found this illustrious In- 
dian warrior immediately succeeded by " a fresh 
parcel of Dublin butter." 

The trade of advertising is now so near to 
perfection, that it is not easy to propose any 
improvement. But as every art ought to he 
exercised in due subordination to the public 
good, I cannot but propose it as a moral question 
to these masters of the public ear. Whether they 
do not sometimes play too wantonly with our 
passions, as when the registrar of lottery tickets 
invites us to his shop by an account of the prizes 
which he sold last year; and whether the ad- 
vertising controvertists do not indulge asperity 
of language without any adequate provocation ; 
as in the dispute about straps for razors, now 
happily subsided, and in the altercation which 
at present subsists concerning eaii de luce? 

In an advertisement it is allowed to evej-y 



44 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 41, 



man to speak well of himself, but I know not 
why he should assume the privilege of t-ensur- 
ing his neighbour. He may proclaim liis own 
virtue or skill, but ought not to exclude others 
from the same pretensions. 

Every man that advertises his own excellence 
should write with some consciousness of char- 
acter which dares to call the attention of the 
public. He should remember that his name is 
to stand in the same paper with those of the 
king of Prussia and the emperor of Germany, 
nnd endeavour to make himself worthy of such 
tissociation. 

Some regard is likewise to be paid to pos- 
terity. There are men of diligence and curio- 
sity who treasure up the papers of the day "mere- 
ly because others neglect them, and in time they 
will be scarce. When these collections shall be 
read in another century, how will numberless 
contradictions be reconciled ; and how shall fame 
be possibly distributed among the tailors and 
boddice-makers of the present age? 

Surely these things deserve consideration. It 
is enough for me to have hinted my desire that 
these abuses may be rectified ; but such is the 
state of nature, that what all have the right of 
doing, many will attempt without sufficient care 
or due qualifications. 



Ko. 41.] Saturday, Jan. 27, 1759. 



The following letter relates to an affliction 
perhaps not necessary to be imparted to the 
public; but I could not persuade myself to 
suppress it, because I think I know the sen- 
timents to be sincere, and I feel no disposi- 
tion to provide for this day any other enter- 
tainment. 

At tu quisquls eris, miseri qui crude foetd 

Credideris fietu funera d\gna tuo, 
JIac postrema tibi sitflendi causa , fluatque 

Lenis iiwjj enso vitaque 7no7-sque gradu. 

Mr. Idler, 

Kotwithstanding the warnings of philoso- 
phers, and the daily examples of losses and 
misfortimes which life forces upon our obser- 
vation, such is the absoi7>tion of our thoughts 
in the business of the present day, such the re- 
signation of our reason to empty hopes of future 
felicity, or such our unwillingness to foresee 
what we di'ead, that every calamity comes sud- 
denly upon us, and not only presses us as a bur- 
den, but crushes as a blow. 

There are evils which happen out of the com- 
mon course of nature, against which it is no re- 
proach not to be provided. A flash of light- 
ning iutercppts tb«» traveller in his way. The 



concussion of an earthquake heaps the ruins of 
cities upon their inhabitants. But other mis- 
eries time brings, though silently, yet visibly, 
forward by its even lapse, which yet approach 
us unseen, because we turn our eyes away, and 
seize us unresisted, because we could not arm 
ourselves against them but by setting them be- 
fore us. 

That it is vain to shrink from what cannot be 
avoided, and to hide that from ourselves which 
must sometime be found, is a truth which we 
all know, but which all neglect, and perhaps 
none more than the speculative reasoner, whose 
thoughts are always from home, whose eye 
wanders over life, whose fancy dances after 
meteors of happiness kindled by itself, and who 
examines every thing rather than his own state. 

Nothing is more evident than that the decays 
of age must terminate in death ; yet there is no 
man, says Tuliy, who does not believe that he 
may yet live another year ; and there is none 
who does not, upon the same principle, hope 
another year for his parent or his friend ; but 
the fallacy will be in time detected; the last 
year, the last day, must come. It has come, and 
is past. The life which made my own life 
pleasant is at an end, and the gates of death are 
shut upon my prospects. 

The loss of a friend upon whom the hefurt was 
fixed, to whom every wish and endeavour tend- 
ed, is a state of dreary desolation, in which the 
mind looks abroad impatient of itself, and finds 
nothing but emptiness and horror. The blame- 
less life, the artless tenderness, the pious simplici- 
ty, the modest resignation, the patient sickness, 
and the quiet death, are remembered only to 
add value to the loss, to aggravate regret for 
what cannot be amended, to deepen sorrow 
for what cannot be recalled. 

These are the calamities by which providence 
gradually disengages us from the love of life. 
Other evils fortitude may repel, or hope may 
mitigate; but irreparable privation leaves no- 
thing to exercise resolution or flatter expectation. 
The dead cannot return, and nothing is left us 
here but languishment and gi'ief. 

Yet such is the course of nature, that whoever 
lives long must outlive those whom he loves and 
honours. Such is the condition of our present 
existence, that life must one time lose its asso- 
ciations, and every inhabitant of the earth must 
walk downward to the gi-ave alone and unre- 
I garded, without any partner of his joy or grief, 
1 without any interested witness of his misfortunes 
■ or success. 

Misfortune, indeed, he may yet feel ; for 
where is the bottom of the misery of man ? But 
1 what is success to him that has none to enjoy it? 
Happiness is not found in self-contemplation : 
it is perceived only when it is reflected from 
another. 

We know little of the state of dt-j^arted souls, 



No. 42 ] 



THE IDLER. 



45 



because such knowledge is not necessary to a 
good life. Reason deserts us at the brink of the 
grave, and can give no farther intelligence^ 
Revelation is not wholly silent. " There is joy 
in the angels of Heaven over one sinner that 
repenteth;" and surely this joy is not incom- ! 
municable to souls disentangled from the body, 
and made like angels. 

Let hope therefore dictate, what revelation 
does not confute, that the union of souls may 
still remain ; and that we who are struggling 
with sin, sorrow, and infirmities, may have our 
part in the attention and kindness of those who 
have finished their course, and are now receiving 
their reward. 

These are the great occasions which force the 
mind to take refuge in religion ; when we have 
no help in ourselves, AAhat can remain but that 
we look up to a higher and a greater Power? 
and to what hope may we not raise our eyes and 
heaits when we consider that the greatest power 
is the best ? 

Surely there is no man who, thus afiiicted, 
does not seek succour in the gospel, w^hich has 
brought life and immortality to light. The pre- 
cepts of Epicurus, who teaches us to endure 
what the laws of the universe make necessary, 
may silence, hut not content us. The dictates 
of Zeno, who commands us to look with in- 
difference on external things, may dispose us to 
conceal our sori'ow, but cannot assuage it. Real 
alleviation of the loss of friends, and rational 
tranquillity in the prospect of our own dissolu- 
tion, can be received only from the promises of 
Him in whose hands are life and death, and 
from the assurance of another and better state, 
in which all tears will be wiped from the eyes, 
and the whole soul shall be filled with joy. 
Philosophy may infuse stubbornness, but relig- 
ion only can give patience. 

I am, &c. 



No. 42.] Saturday, Feb. 3, 17o9. 



The subject of the following letter is not wholly 
immentioned by the Rambler. The Spectator 
has also a letter containing a case not much 
different. I hope my correspondent's perform- 
ance is more an effort of genius, than effusion of 
the passions ; and that she hath rather attemp- 
ted to paint some possible distress than rezdly 
feels the evils she has described. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sn 



There is a cause of misery, which, though cer- 
tainly known both to you and your predecessors, 
has been little taken notice of in your papers ; I 
mean the snares that the bad behaviour of pa- 



rents extends over the paths of life which their 
children are to tread after them ; and as I make 
no doubt but the Idler holds the shield for virtue 
as well as the glass for folly, that he will employ 
his leisure hours as much to his own satisfaction, 
in warning his readers against a danger, as in 
laughing them out of a fashion : for this reason 
to ask admittance for my story in your paper, 
though it has nothing to reommend it but 
truth, and the honest wish of warning others 
to shun the track which I am afraid may lead 
me at last to ruin. 

I am the child of a father, who, having 
always lived in one spot in the country where 
he was born, and having had no genteel educa- 
tion himself, thought no qualificjitions in the 
world desirable but as they led up to fi-rtune, 
and no learning necessary to happiness but such 
as might most effectually teach me to make the 
best market of myself: I was unfortunately 
born a beauty, to a full sense of which my fa- 
ther took care to flatter me ; and having, when 
very young, put me to school in the country, 
afterwards transplanted me to another in town, 
at the instigation of his friends, where his ill- 
judged fondness let me remain no longer than to 
learn just enough experience to convince me of 
the sordidness of his views, to give me an idea 
of perfections which my present situation will 
never suffer me to reach, and to teach me suffi- 
cient morals to dare to despise what is bad, though 
it be in a father. 

Thus equipped (as he thought completely) for 
life, I was carried back into the country, and 
lived with him and my mother in a small vil- 
lage, within a few miles of the county-town ; 
where I mixed, at first with reluctance, among 
company which, though I never despised, I could 
not approve, as they were brought up with other 
inclinations, and narrower views than my own. 
INIy father took great pains to show me every 
where, both at his own house, and at such pub- 
lic diversions as the country afforded : he fre- 
quently told the people all he had was for hia 
daughter ; took care to repeat the civilities I 
had received from all his friends in London ; 
told how much I was admired, and all his little 
ambition could suggest to set me in a stronger 
light. 

Thus have I continued tricked out for sale, as 
I may call it, and doomed, by parental author- 
ity, to a state little better than that of prostitu- 
tion. I look on myself as gi'owing cheaper every 
hour, and am losing all that honest pride, that 
modest confidence, in which the virgin dignity 
consists. Nor does my misfortune stop here : 
though many would be too generous to impixte 
the follies of a father to a child whose heart has 
set her above them ; yet I am afraid the most 
charitable of them will hardly think it possible 
for me to be a daily spectatress of his vices with- 
out tacitly allowing them, and at last consenting 



46 



THE IDLER. 



I'So. 43. 



to them, as the eye of the friyhtod infant Is, by 
degrees reconciled to the darkness of wliich at 
first it was afraid. It is a common opinion, he 
himself must very well know, that vices, like 
diseases, are often hereditary ; and that the pro- 
perty of the one is to infect the manners, as the 
other poisons the springs of life. 

Yet this though bad, is not the worst ; my 
father deceives himself the hopes of the very 
child he has brought into the world ; he suffers 
his house to be the seat of drunkenness, riot, and 
irreligion : who seduces, almost in my sight, 
the menial servant, converses with the prosti- 
tute, and com-upts the wife ! Thus I, who from 
my earliest dawn of reason was taught to think 
that at my approach every eye sparkled with 
pleasure, or was dejected as conscious of supe- 
rior charms, am excluded from society, through 
fear lest I should partake, if not of my father's 
crimes, at least of his repi'oach. Is a parent, who 
is so little solicitous for the welfaie of a child, 
better than a pirate who tui'ns a wretch adrift 
in a boat at sea, without a star to steer by, or 
an anchor to hold it fast? Am I not to lay all 
my miseries at those doors which ought to 
have opened only for my protection ? And if 
doomed to add at last one more to the number 
of those WTetches whom neither the world nor 
its law befriends, may I not justly say that I 
have been awed by a parent into ruin? But 
though a parent's power is screened from in- 
sult and violation by the very words of Heaven, 
yet surely no laws, divine or human, forbid me 
to remove myself from the malignant shade of 
a plant that poisons all around it, blasts the 
bloom of youth, checks its improvements, and 
makes all its flowerets fade ; but to whom can 
the wretched, can the dependent fly? Forme 
to fly a father's house, is to be a beggar ; I have 
only one comforter amidst my anxieties, a pious 
relation, who bids me appeal to Heaven for a 
witness to my just intentions, fly as a deserted 
•wretch to its protection ; and, being asked who 
my father is, point, like the ancient philosopher, 
with my finger to the heavens. 

The hope in which I write this, is, that you 
will give it a place in your paper ; and as your 
essays sometimes find their way into the country, 
that my father may read my story there ; and, 
if not for his own sake yet for mine, spare to 
perpetuate that worst of calamities to me, the 
loss of character, from which aU his dissimula- 
tion has not been able to rescue himself. Tell 
the world. Sir, that it is possible for virtue to 
keep its throne unshaken without any other 
guard than itself; that it is possible to maintain 
that purity of thought so necessary to the com- 
pletion of human excellence even in the midst of 
temptations ; when they have no friend within, 
nor are assisted by the voluntary indulgence of 
vicious thoughts. 

If the insertion of a story like this does not 



i break in on the plan of yoiU' paper, you have it 
in your ])ower to be a better friend than her 
father to 

Perdita, 



No. is.] Satukday, Feb. 10, 1759. 







The natural advantages which arise from the 
position of the earth which we inhabit, Avith 
respect to the other planets, afford much em- 
ployment to mathematical speculation, by which 
it has been discovered, that no other conforma- 
tion of the system could have given such com- 
modious distributions of light and heat, or im- 
parted fertility and pleasure to so great a part ■ 
of a revolving sphere. 

It may be, perhaps, observed by the moralist, 
with equal reason, that our globe seems particu- 
larly fitted for the residence of a being, placed 
here only for a short time, whose task is, to ad- 
vance himself to a higher and happier state of 
existence, by unremitted vigilance of caution, 
and activity of virtue. 

The duties required of a man are such as hu- 
man nature does not willingly perform, and 
such as- those are inclined to delay who yet in- 
tend some time to fulfil them. It was there- 
fore necessary that this universal reluctance 
should be counteracted, and the drowsiness of 
hesitation wakened into resolve ; that the dan- 
ger of procrastination should be always in view, 
and the fallacies of security be houily detected. 

To this end all the appearances of nature uni- 
formly conspire. Whatever we see on every 
side reminds us of the lapse of time and the flux 
of life. The day and night succeed each other, 
the rotation of seasons diversifies the year, the 
aun rises, attains the meridian, de( lines and 
sets; and the moon every night changes its 
form. 

The day has been considered as an image of j 
the year, and the year as the representation oi 
life. The morning answers to the spring, and 
the spring to childhood and youth; the noon 
corresponds to the summer, and the summer to 
the strength of manhood. The evening is au 
emblem of autumn, and autumn of declining life. 
The night with its silence and darkness shows 
the winter, in which aU the powers of vegeta- 
tion are benumbed ; and the winter points out 
the time when life .shall cease, with its hopes 
and pleasures. 

He that is carried forward, however swiftly, 
by a motion equable and easy, perceives not the 
change of place but by the variation of ob- 
jects. If the wheel of life, which roUs thus 
silently along, passed on through un distinguish- 
able uniformity, we should never mark its ap- 
proaches to the end of the course. If one hour 
* Avere like another ; if the pass^e of the sun did 



No. 44.] 



THE IDLER. 



47 



not show that the day is wasting; if the change 
of seasons did not impress upon us the flight of 
the year ; quantities of duration equal to days' 
and years would glide unobserved. If the parts 
of time were not variously coloured, we should 
never discern their departure or succession, but 
should live thoughtless of the past, and careless 
of the future, withoTit will, and pei-haps with- 
out power, to compute the periods of life, or to 
compare the time which is already lost with 
that which may probably remain. 

But the course of time is so visibly marked, 
that it is observed even by the birds of passage, 
and by nations who have raised their minds 
very little above animal instinct ; there are hu- 
man beings whose lan^age does not supply 
them with words by ^vhich they can number 
five, but I have read of none that have not 
names for day and night, for summer and win- 
ter. 

Yet it is certain that these admonitions of na- 
ture, however forcible, however importunate, 
are too often vain ; and that many who mark 
with such accuracy the course of time, appear 
to have little sensibility of the decline of life. 
ICvery man has something to do which he ne- 
glects ; every man has faults to conquer which 
he delays to combat. 

So little do we accustom ourselves to consider 
the effects of time, that things necessary and 
certain often surprise us like unexpected contin- 
genc'ies. We leave the beauty in her bloom, 
and, after an absence of twenty years, wonder, 
at our return, to find her faded. We meet 
those whom we left children, and can scarcely 
persuade ourselves to treat them as men. The 
traveller visits in age those countries through 
which he rambled in his youth, and hopes for 
merriment at the old place. The man of busi- 
ness, wearied with unsatisfactory prosperity, 
retires to the town of his nativity, and expects 
to play away the last years with the compan- 
ions of his childhood, and recover youth in the 
fields whei'e he once was young. 

From tliis inattention, so general and so mis- 
chievous, let it he every man's study to exempt 
himself. Let him that desires to see others 
haj»py, make haste to give while his gift can be 
enjoyed, and remember that every moment of 
delay takes away something from the value of 
his benefaction. And let him, who purposes 
his own happiness, reflect, that while he forms 
his purpose the day rolls on, and " the night 
rometh, when no man can work !" 



k-vvw-i-Vfc^ v%-vv«.» 



No. 44.] Saturday, Feb. 17, 1739. 



Mfmory is, among the faculties of the human 
xniud, that of which we make the most frequent 



use, or rather that of which the agency is in- 
cessant or perpetual. Memory is the primary 
and fundamental power, without which there 
could be no other intellectual operation. Judg- 
ment and ratiocination suppose something al- 
ready known, and draw their decisions only 
from experience. Imagination selects ideas 
from the treasures of remembrance, and pro- 
duces novelty only by varied combinations. 
We do not even form conjectures of distant, or 
anticipations, of future events, but by conclud- 
ing what is possible from what is past. 

The two oflS^ces of memory are collection and 
distribution ; by one images are accumulated, 
and by the other produced for use. Collection is 
always the employment of our first years; and 
distribution commonly that of our advanced 
age. 

To collect and reposit the various forms of 
things, is far the most pleasing part of mental 
occupation. We are naturally delighted with 
novelty, and there is a time when all that we 
see is new. When first we enter into the world, 
whithersoever we turn om* eyes, they meet 
Knowledge with Pleasure at her side ; every 
diversity of nature pours ideas in upcm the soul ; 
neither search nor labour are necessary ; we 
have nothing more to do than to open our eyes, 
and curiosity is gratified. 

iVIuch of the pleasure Avhich the first survey 
of the world affords, is exhausted before we are 
conscious of our own felicity, or able to compare 
our condition with some other possible state. 
We have therefore few traces of the joy of our 
earliest discoveries ; yet we all remember a time 
when nature had so many untasted gratifica- 
tions, that every excursion gave delight which 
can now be found no longer, Avhen the noise of 
a torrent, the rustle of a wood, the song of birds, 
or the play of lambs, had power to fill the at- 
tention, and suspend all perception of the course 
of time. 

But these easy pleasures are soon at end ; Ave 
have seen in a very little time so much, that v.e 
call out for new objects of observation, and en^ 
deavour to find variety in books and life. But 
study is laborious, and not always satisfactory ; 
and conA-ersation has its pains as well as pleas- 
ures; we are willing to learn, but not Avil- 
llng to be taught; we ai'e pained by ignorance, 
but pained yet more by another's knoAvledge. 

From the A-exation of pupilage men common- 
ly set themseh'cs free about the middle of life, 
by shutting up the aA-enues of intelligence, and 
resolving to rest in their present state; and 
they, whose ardour of inquiry continues longer 
find themselves insensibly forsaken by their in 
structors. As every man advances in life, the 
proportion between those that are younger and 
that are elder than himself, is continually 
changing ; and he that has lived half a century 
finds few that do not require from him that in- 



48 



THE IDLER. 



[No 45 



formation which he once expected ft-om those 
that went before him. 

Then it is that'the magazines of memory are 
opened, and the stores of accumulated knowledge 
ure displayed by vanity or btnevolence, or in 
honest commerc^c of mutual interest. Every 
man wants others, and is therefore glad when 
he is wanted by them. And as few men will 
endure the labour of intense meditation with- 
out necessity, he that has learned enough for his 
profit or his honour, seldom, endeavours after 
further acquisitions. 

The pleasure of recollecting speculative no- 
tions would not be much less than that of gain- 
ing them, if they cojuld be kept pure and 
unmingled with the passages of life ; but such 
is the necessary concatenation of our thoughts, 
that good and evil are linked together, and no 
pleasure recurs but associated Avith pain. Every 
revived idea reminds us of a time, when some- 
thing was enjoyed that is now lost, when some 
hope was yet not blasted, when some purpose 
had yet not languished into sluggishness or in- 
difference. 

Whether it be that life has more vexations 
than comf(ft"ts, or, what is in the event just the 
same, that evil makes deeper impression than 
good, it is certain that no man can review the 
time past without heaviness of heart. He re- 
members many calamities incurred by folly, 
many opportunities lost by negligence. The 
shades of the dead rise up before him ; and he 
laments the companions of his youth, the part- 
ners of his amusements, the assistants of his 
laboui-s, whom the hand of death has snatched 
away. 

When an offer was made to Themistocles of 
teaching him the art of memory, he answered, 
that he would rather Avish for the art of forget- 
fulness. He felt his imagination haunted by 
phantoms of misery which he was unable to 
suppress, and would gladly have calmed his 
thoughts with some oblivious antidote. In 
this we all resemble one another : the hero and 
the sage are like vulgar moi'tals, overburdened 
by the weight of life; all shrink from recollec- 
tion, and all wish for an art of forgetfulness. 



No 45.] Saturday, Feb.- 24, 1759. 



There is in many minds a kind of vanity ex- 
erted to the disadvantage of themselves ; a de- 
sire to be praised for superior acuteness discov- 
ered only in the degradation of their species, 
or censure of their country. 

Defamation is sufficiently copious. _The gen- 
oral lampooner of mankind may find long exer- 
cise fur his zeal or wit, in the defects of nature, 
the vexations of life, the follies cf opinicn, and 
the ccriiiptions of practice. But fiction is easi- 



er than discernment ; and most of these writers 
spare themselves the labour* of inquiry, and ex- 
liaust their virulence upon imaginary crimes, 
which, as they never existed, can never be 
mended. 

That the painters find no encouragement 
among the English for many other works than 
portraits, has been imputed to national selfish- 
ness. 'Tis vain, says the satirist, to set before 
any Englishman the scenes of landscapes, or the 
heroes of history ; natiu'e and antiquity art no 
thing in his eye; he has no value but for him 
self, nor desires any copy but of his own form. 

Whoever is delighted with his own picture 
must derive his pleasure from the pleasure of 
another. Every man is always present to him- 
self, and has, therefore, little need of his own 
I'esemblance, nor can desire it, but for the sake 
of those whom he loves, and by whom he 
hopes 10 be remembered. This use of the art is 
a natural and reasonable consequence of affec- 
tion ; and though, like other human actions, it is 
often complicated with pride, yet even such pride 
is more laudable than that, by which palaces are 
covered with pictures, that, however excellent, 
neither imply the owner's virtue nor excite it. 

Genius is chiefly exerted in historical pic- 
tures ; and the art of the painter of portraits is 
often lost in the obscurity of his subject. But 
it is in painting as in life, what is greatest is 
not always best. I should grieve to see Rey- 
nolds transfer to heroes and to goddesses, to 
empty splendour and to airy fiction, that art 
which is now employed in diffusing friendship, 
in reviving tenderness, in quickening the affec- 
tions of the absent, and continuing the presence 
of the dead. 

Yet in a nation great and opulent there is 
room, and ought to be patronage, for an art like 
that of painting through all its diversities ; and 
it is to be wished, that the reward now offered 
for an historical picture may excite an honest 
emulation, and give beginning to an English 
school. 

ft is not very easy to find an action or event 
that can be efficaciously represented by a painter. 

He must have an action not successive, but 
instantaneous; for the time of a picture is a 
single moment. For this reason the death of 
Hercules cannot well be painted, though at the 
first view it flatters the imagination with very 
glittering ideas ; the gloomy mountain over- 
hanging the sea, and covered with treen, some 
bending to the wind, and some torn from the 
root by the raging hero ; the violence with which 
he sends from his shoulders the envenomed gar- 
ment ; the propriety with which his muscular 
nakedness may be displayed : the death of Lycas 
whirled from the promontory ; the gigantic 
presence of Philoctetes ; the blaze of the fatal 
pile, which the deities beheld with giief and ter- 
ror from tlie sky. 



No. 46.] 



THE IDLER. 



4-9 



All these Images fiU the mind, but will not 
compose a picture, because they cannot be united 
in a single moment. Hercules must have rent 
his flesh at one time, and tossed Lycas into the 
air at another ; he must first tear up the trees, 
and then lie down upon the pile. 

The action must be circumstantial and dis- 
tinct. There is a passage in the Iliad which 
cannot be read without strong emotions. A 
Trojan prince, seized by Achilles in the battle, 
falls at his feet, and in moving terms supplicates 
for life. « How can a wretch like thee," says 
the haughty Greek, " intreat to live, when thou 
knowest that the time must come when Achilles 
is to die?" This cannot be painted, because no 
peculiarity of attitude or disposition can so sup- 
ply the place of language as to impress the sen- 
timent. 

The event painted must be such as excites pas- 
sion, and different passions in the several actors, 
or a tumult of contending passion in the chief. 

Perhaps the discovery of Ulysses by his nurse 
is of this kind. The surprise of the nurse 
mingled with joy ; that of Ulysses checked by 
prudence, and clouded by solicitude ; and the 
distinctness of the action by which the scar is 
found ; all concur to complete the subject. But 
the picture, having only two figures, will want 
variety. 

A much nobler assemblage may be furnished 
by the death of Epaminondas. The mixture of 
gladness and grief in the face of the messenger 
who bi'ings his dying general an account of the 
victory ; the various passions of the attendants ; 
the sublimity of composure in the hero, while 
the dart is by his own command drawn from his 
side, and the faint gleam of satisfaction that dif- 
fuses itself over the languor of death, are worthy 
of that pencil which yet I do not wish to see 
employed upon them. 

If the design were not too multifarious and 
extensive, I should wish that our painters would 
attempt the dissolution of the parliament by 
Cromwell. The point of time may be chosen 
when Cromwell looked round the Pandsemoni- 
um with contempt, ordered the bauble to be 
taken away ; and Harrison laid hands on the 
Speaker to drag him from the chair. 

The various appearances which rage, and ter- 
ror, and astonishment, and guilt, might exhibit 
in the faces of that hateful assembly, of whom 
the principal persons may be faithfully drawn 
from portraits or prints ; the irresolute repug- 
nance of some, the hypocritical submission of 
others, the ferocious insolence of Cromwell, the 
rugged brutality of HaiTison, and the general 
trepidation of fear and wickedness, would, if 
some proper disposition could be contrived, make 
a picture of unexampled variety, and irresistible 
instruction. 



No. 46.] Saturday, March 3, 1750. 



Mr. Idler, 
I AM encouraged, by the notice you have taken 
of Betty Broom, to represent the miseries which 
I suffer from a species of tyranny which, I be- 
lieve, is not very uncommon, though perhaps it 
may have escaped the observation of those who 
converse little with fine ladies, or see them only 
in their public characters. 

To this method of venting my vexation I am 
the more inclined, because if I do not complain 
to you, I must burst in silence ; for my mistresi 
has teased me, and teased me till I can hold no 
longer, and yet I must not tell her of her tricks. 
The girls that live in common services can 
quarrel, and give warning, and find other places ; 
but we that live with great ladies, if we 
once offend them, have nothing left but to re- 
turn into the country. 

I am waiting-maid to a lady who keeps the 
best company, and is seen at every place of fa- 
shionable resort. I am envied by all the maids 
in the square, for few countesse^ leave off so 
many clothes as my mistress, and nobody shares 
with me : so that I supply two families in the 
country with finery for the assizes and horse- 
races, besides what I wear myself. The stew- 
ard and house-keeper have joined against me to 
procure my removal, that they may advance a 
relation of their own ; but their designs are 
found out by my lady, who says I need not fear 
them, for she will never have dowdies about 
her. 

You would think, Mr. Idler, like others, that 
I am very happy, and may well be contented 
with my lot. But I will tell you. My lady 
has an odd humour. She never orders any thing 
in direct words, for she loves a sharp girl that 
can take a hint. 

I would not have you suspect that she has 
any thing to hint which she is ashamed to speak 
at length ; for none can have greater purity of 
sentiment, or rectitude of intention. She has 
nothing to hide, yet nothing will she tell. She 
always gives her directions oblique and allusive- 
ly, by the mention of something relative or con- 
sequential, without any other purpose than to 
exercise my acuteness and her own. 

It is impossible to give a notion of this style 
otherwise than by examples. One night, when 
she had sat writing letters till it was time to be 
dressed, " Molly," said she, " the ladies are alj 
to be at court to-night in white aprons." When 
she means that I should send to order the chair, 
she says, " I think the streets are clean, 1 may 
venture to walk." When she would have some- 
thing put into its place, she bids me " lay it ou 
the fiooi'." If she would have me snuff the 
candles, she asks. " whether I think her eyes 
H 



50 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 47. 



Are like a cat's?" If she thinks her chocohitc 
delayed, she talks of the benefit of abstinence. 
If any needle- work is forgotten, she supposes 
that I have heard of the lady who died by prick- 
ing her finger. 

She always imagines that I can recall every 
thing past from a single word. If she wants 
her head from the milliner, she only says, 
" Molly, you know Mrs. Tape." If she would 
have the mantua-raaker sent for, she remarks 
that " Mr. Taffety, the mercer, was here last 
week." She ordered, a fortnight ago, that the 
first time she was abroad all day I should choose 
her a new set of coffee-cups at the china-shop : 
of this she reminded me yesterday, as she was 
going down stairs, by saying, " You can't find 
your way now to Pall- Mall." 

All this would not vex me, if, by increasing 
my trouble, she spared her own ; but, dear Mr. 
Idler, is it not as easy to say coffee-cups, as Pali- 
Mall ? and to tell me in plain words what I am 
to do, and when it is to be done, as to torment 
her own head with the laboui* of finding hints, 
and mine with that of understanding them ? 

When first I came to this lady, I had nothing 
like the learning that I have now ; for she has 
many books, and I have much time to read ; so 
that of late I have seldom missed her meaning : 
but when she first took me I was an ignorant 
girl; and she, who, as is very common, con- 
founded want of knowledge with want of un- 
deistanding, began once to despair of bringing 
me to any thing, because, when I came into her 
chamber at the call of her bell, she asked me, 
" (^Vhether we lived in Zembla;" and I did not 
guess the meaning of inquiry, but modestly an- 
swered that I could not tell. She had happened 
to ring once when I did not hear her, and meant 
to put me in mind of that country where 
sounds are said to be congealed by the frost. 

Another time, as I was dressing her head, 
she began to talk on a sudden of Medusa, and 
snakes, and " men turned into stone, and maids 
that, if they were not watched, would let their 
mistresses be Gorgons." I looked round me 
half frightened, and quite bewildered; till at 
last, finding that her literature was thrown 
away upon ine, she bid me, with great vehe- 
mence, reach the curling-irons. 

It is not without some indignation, Mr. Idler, 
that I discover, in these artifices of vexation, 
something worse than foppery or caprice; a 
mean delight in superiority, which knows itself 
in no danger of reproof or opposition ; a cruel 
pleasure in seeing the perplexity of a mind 
obliged to find what is studiously concealed, 
and a mean indulgence of petty malevolence, in 
the sharp censure of involuntary, and very often 
of inevitable failings. When, beyond her ex- 
pectation, 1 bit upon her meaning, I can per- 
ceive a snddvu cloud of disappointment spread 
over her fa^ ; and have sometimes been afraid 



I 



lest I should lose her favour by understanding 
her when she means to pu/zle me. 

This day, however, she has conquered my ■ 
sagacity. When she went out of her dressing- * 
room she said nothing but " MoDy, you knoAv," 
and hastened to her chariot. What I am to 
know is yet a secret ; but if I do not kno\v 
before she comes back, what I have yet no 
means of discovering, she will make my dulness 1 
a pretence for a fortnight's ill humour, treat I 
me as a creature devoid of the faculties neces- 
sary to the common duties of life, and perhaps 
give the next gown to the housekeeper. 
I am, Sir, 

Your humble Servant, 

MoLi-Y Quick, 



No. 47.] Satuhday, March 10, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 

Mr. Idler, 
I AM the unfortunate wife of a city wit, and 
cannot but think that my case may deserve 
equal compassion with any of those which have 
been represented in your paper. 

I married my husband within three months 
after the expiration of his apprenticeship ; we 
put our money together, and furnished a large 
and splendid shop, in which he was for five 
years and a half diligent and civil. The notice 
which curiosity or kindness commonly bestoAvs 
on beginners, was continued by confidence and 
esteem; one customer, pleased with his treat- 
ment and his bargain, recommended another; 
and we were busy behind the counter from 
morning to night. 

Thus every day increased our wealth and our 
reputation. My husband was often .invited to 
dinner openly on the Exchange by hundred- 
thousand-pounds men; and whenever I went 
to any of the halls, the wives of the aldermen 
made me low courtesies. We always took up 
our notes before the day, and made all consider- 
able payments by drafts upon our banker. 

You will easily believe that I was weU 
enoagh pleased with my condition ; for what 
happiness can be greater than that of growing 
every day richer and richer? I will not deny 
that, imagining myself likely to be in a short 
time the sheriff's lady, I broke off my acquain- 
tance with some of my neighbours; and advised 
my husband to keep good company, and not to 
be seen with men that were worth nothing. 

In time he found that ale disagreed with his 
constitution, and went every night to drink his 
pint at a tavern, where he met with a set of 
critics, who disputed upon the merits of the 
different theatrical performers. By these idle 



No. 48.] 



THE IDLER. 



51 



fellows he i;i'as taken to tlie play, which at first 
he did not seem much to heed ; for he owned, 
that he very seldom knew what they w^ere do- 
ing, and that, while his companions would let 
liin^. alone, he was commonly thinking on his 
last hargain. 

Having once gone, however, he went again 
and again, though I often told him that three 
shillings were thrown away; at last he grew 
uneasy if he missed a night, and importuned me 
to go with him. 1 went to a tragedy which 
they called jMacbeth ; and, when I came home, 
told him, that I could not bear to see men and 
%yomen make themselves such fools, by pretend- 
ing to be witches and ghosts, generals and kings, 
•and to walk in their sleep when they were as 
much awake as those that looked at them. He 
told me, that I must get higher notions, and 
that a play was the most rational of all enter- 
tainments, and most proper to relax the mind 
after the business of the day. 

13y degrees he gained knowledge of some of 
the players; and when the play was over, very 
frequently treated them with suppers ; for 
which he was admitted to stand behind the 
scenes. 

He soon began to lose some of his morning 
hours in the same folly, and was for one winter 
very diligent in his attendance on the rehear- 
sals ; but of this species of idleness he grew 
weary, and said, that the play was nothing with- 
out the company. 

His ardour for the diversion of the evening 
increased; he bought a sword, and paid five 
shillings a night to sit in the boxes ; he went 
sometimes into a place which he calls the green- 
room, w^here all the w^its of the age assembled ; 
and, when he had been there, could do nothing 
for two or three days but repeat their jests, or 
tell their disputes. 

He has now lost his regard for every thing 
but the play-house : he invites, three times a 
week, one or other to drink claret, and talk of 
the drama. His first care in the morning is to 
read the play-bills; and, if he remembers any 
lines of the tragedy which is to be represented, 
walks about the shop, repeating them so loud, 
and with such strange gestures, that the passen- 
gers gather round the door. 

His greatest pleasm-e when I married him 
was to hear the situation of his shop commend- 
ed, and to be told how many estates have been 
got in it by the same trade ; but of late he grows 
peevish at any mention of business, and delights 
in nothing so much as to be told that he speaks 
like Mossop. 

Among his new associates he has learned an- 
other language, and speaks in such a strain that 
his neighbours cannot understand him. If a 
customer talks longer than he is willing to hear, 
he will complain that he lias been excruciated 
with unmeaning verbosity ; he laughs at the 



letters of his friends for their tameness of ex- 
pression, and often declares himself weary of at- 
tending to the minutice of a shop. 

It is well for me that I know how to keep a 
book, for of late he is scarcely ever in the way. 
Since one of his friends told him that he had a 
genius for tragic poetry, he has locked himself 
in an upper room six or seven hours a day ; and, 
when I carry him any paper to be read or sign- 
ed, I hear him talking vehemently to himself, 
sometimes of love and beauty, sometimes of 
friendship and virtue, but more frequently of li- 
berty and his country. 

I would gladly, Mr. Idler, be informed what 
to think of a shopkeeper who is incessantly talk- 
ing about liberty ; a word which, since his ac- 
quaintance with polite life, my husband has al- 
ways in his mouth ; he is, on all occasions, 
afraid of our liberty, and declares his resolution 
to hazard all for liberty. What can the man 
mean? I am sure he has liberty enough— it 
v/ere better for him and me if his liberty was 
lessened. 

He has a friend whom he calls a critic, that 
comes twice a week to read what he is writing. 
This critic tells him that his piece is a little ir- 
regular, but that some detached scenes Avill shine 
prodigiously, and that in the character of Bom- 
bulus he is w^onderfully great. My scribbler 
then squeezes his hand, calls him the best of 
friends, thanks hini for his sincerity, and tells 
him that he hates to be flattered. 1 have reason 
to believe that he seldom parts with his dear 
friend without lending him two guineas, and 
am afraid that he gave bail for him three days 
ago. 

By this course of life otir credit as traders is 
lessened, and I cannot forbear to suspect, that 
my husband's honour as a wit is not much ad- 
vanced, for he seems to be always the lowest of 
the company, and is afraid to tell his opinion 
till the rest have spoken. When he was behinc) 
his counter, he used to be brisk, active, and jo» 
cular, like a man that knew what he was doing; 
and did not fear to look another in the face ; 
but among wits and critics he is timorous and 
awkward, and hangs down his head at his own 
table. Dear IMr. Idler, persuade him, if you 
can, to return once more to his native element. 
Tell him, that his wit will never make him 
rich, but that there are places where riches will 
always make a wit. 

I am. Sir, &c. 

Deborah Ginger. 



No. 48.] Saturday, March 17, 1759. 



There is no kind of idleness, by which we arc 
so easily sef'uced as that which dignifies itself 



52 



THE IDLER. 



LNo. 49. 



\>y the appearance of business, and by making 
the loiterer imagine that he has something to do 
which must not be neglected, keeps him in per- 
petual agitation, and hurries him rapidly from 
place to place. 

He that sits still, or reposes himself upon a 
couch, no more deceives himself than he deceives 
othei*s ; he knows that he is doing nothing, and 
has no other solace of his insignificance than the 
resolution, which the lazy hourly make, of 
changing his mode of life. 

To do nothing every man is ashamed ; and to 
do much almost every man is unwilling or afraid. 
Innumerable expedients have therefore been in- 
vented to produce motion without labour, and 
employment without solicitude. The greater 
part of those whom the kindness of fortune has 
left to their own direction, and whom want does 
not keep chained to the counter or the plough, 
play throughout life with the shadows of busi- 
ness, and know not at last what they have been 
doing. 

These imitators of action are of all denomi- 
nations. Some are seen at every auction with- 
out intention to purchase ; others appear punc- 
tually at the Exchange, though they are known 
there only by their faces. Some are always 
making parties to visit collections for which 
they have no taste ; and some neglect every 
pleasure and every duty to hear questions, in 
•which they have no interest, debated in par- 
liament. 

These men never appear more ridiculous than 
in the distress which they imagine themselves 
to feel, from some accidental interruption of 
those empty pursuits. A tiger newly imprisoned 
is indeed more formidable, but not more angry, 
than Jack Tulip withheld from a florist's feast, 
or Tom Distich hindered from seeing the first 
representation of a play. 

As political affairs are the highest and most 
extensive of temporal concerns ; the mimic of a 
politician is more busy and important than any 
other trifler. Monsieur le Noir, a man who, 
without property or importance in any corner 
of the earth, has, in the present confusion of the 
world, declared himself a steady adherent to the 
French, is made miserable by a wind that keeps 
back the packet boat, and still more miserable 
by every account of a Malouin privateer caught 
in his cruise ; he knows well that nothing can 
be done or said by him which can produce any 
effect but that of laughter, that he can neither 
hasten nor retard good or evil, that his joys and 
sorrows have scarcely any partakers ; yet such 
is his zeal, and such his curiosity, that he would 
run barefooted to Gravesend, for the sake of 
knowing first that the English had lost a tender, 
and would ride out to meet every mail from the 
continent if he might be pei'mittod to open it. 

Lewning is generally confessed to be desirable, 
und there aie some who fancy th»mselves al- 



ways busy in acquiring it. Of these ambula* 
tory students, one of the most busy is my frienii 
Tom Restless. 

Tom has long had a mind to be a man of 
knowledge, but he does not care to spend much 
time among authors ; for he is of opinion that 
few books deserve the labour of perusal, that 
they give the mind an unfashionable cast, and 
destroy that freedom of thought and casings of 
manners indispens-^bly requisite to acceptance in 
the world. Tom has therefore found another 
way to wisdom. When he rises he goes into a 
coffee-house, where he creeps so near to men 
whom he takes to be reasoners as to hear their 
discourse, and endeavours to remember some- 
thing which, when it has been strained througli 
Tom's head, is so near nothing, that what it 
once was, cannot be discovered. This he car- 
ries round from friend to friend through a circle 
of visits, till, hearing what each says upon the 
question, he becomes able at dinner to say a 
little himself ; and, as every gi-eat genius relaxes 
himself among his inferiors, meets with some 
who wonder how so young a man can talk so 
wisely. 

At night he has a new feast prepared for his 
intellects ; he always runs to a disputing society, 
or a speaking club, where he half hears what, 
if he had heard the whole, he would but half 
understand ; goes home pleased with the con- 
sciousness of a day well spent, lies down full of 
ideas, and rises in the morning empty as before. 



No. 49.] Saturdat, March 24, 1759. 



I SUPPED three nights ago with my friend "Will 
Marvel. His affairs obliged him lately to take 
a journey into Devonshire, from which he has 
just returned. He knows me to be a very pa- 
tient hearer, and was glad of my company, as it 
gave him an opportunity of disburdening him- 
self by a minute relation of the casualties of his 
expedition. 

Will is not one of those who go out and re- 
turn with nothing to tell. He has a story of 
his travels, which will strike a home-bred citi- 
zen with horror, and has jn ten days suffered so 
often the extremes of terror and joy, that he is 
in doubt whether he shall ever again expose 
either his body or mind to such danger and fa- 
tigue. 

When he left London the morning was bright 
and a fair day was promised. But Will is born 
to struggle with difl&culties. That happened to 
him, which has sometimes, perhaps, happened 
to others. Before he had gone more than ten 
miles it began to rain. What couiae was to be 
taken? His soul disdained to turn back. He 
did what the king of Prussia -might have done; 



No. 45.J 



THE IDLER. 



53 



he flapped his hat, buttoned up his cape, and 
went forwards, fortifying his mind by the stoical 
consolation, that whatever is violent will be short: 

His constancy was not long tried ; at the dis- 
tance of about half a mile he saw an inn, which 
he entered wet and weary, and found civil 
treatment and proper refreshment. After a 
respite of about two hours, he looked abroad, 
and seeing the sky clear, called for his horse, 
and passed the first stage without any other me- 
morable accident. 

Will considered, that labour must be relieved 
by pleasure, and that the strength which great 
undertakings require must be maintained by 
copious nutriment; he therefore ordered him- 
self an elegant supper, drank two bottles of claret, 
and passed the beginning of the night in sound 
sleep ; but, waking before light, was forewarn- 
ed of the troubles of the next day, by a shower 
beating ag?mst his windows with such violence 
as to threaten the dissolution of nature. When 
he arose, he *bund what he expected, that the 
country was under water. He joined himself, 
however, to a company that was travelling the 
same way, and came safely to the place of din- 
ner, though every step of his horse dashed the 
mud into the air. 

In the afternoon, having parted from his com- 
pany, he set forward alone, and passed many 
collections of water, of which it was impossible 
to guess the depth, and which he now cannot 
review without some censure of his own rash- 
ness ; but what a man undertakes he must per- 
form, and Marvel hates a coward at his heart. 

Few that lie warm in their beds think what 
others undergo, who have perhaps been as ten- 
derly educated, and have as acute sensations as 
themselves. My friend was now to lodge the 
second night almost fifty miles from home, in a 
house which he never had seen before, among 
people to whom he was totally a stranger, not 
knowing whether the next man he should meet 
would prove good or bad ; but seeing an inn 
of a good appearance, he rode resolutely into the 
yard ; and knowing that respect is often paid in 
proportion as it is claimed, delivered his in- 
junctions to the hostler with spirit, and enter- 
ing the house called vigorously about him. 

On the third day up rose the sun and Mr. 
Marvel. His troubles and his dangers were 
now such as he wishes no other man ever to en- 
counter. The ways were less frequented, and 
the country more thinly inhabited. He rode 
many a lonely hour through mire and Avater, 
and met not a single soul for two miles to- 
gether with whom he could exchange a word. 
He cannot deny that, looking round upon the 
dreary region, and seeing nothing but bleak 
fields and naked trees, hills obscured by fogs, 
and flats covered with inundations, he did for 
some time suflFer melancholy to prevail upon 
him, and wished himself again safe at home. 



One comfort he had, which was to consider 
that none of his friends were in the same dis- 
tress, for whom, if they had been with him, 
he should have suffered more than for himself ; 
he could not forbear sometimes to consider how 
happy the Idler is, settled in an easier condi- 
tion, who, surrounded like him with terrors, 
could have done nothing but lie down and die. 
Amidst these reflections he came to a town, 
and found a dinner which disposed him to more 
cheerful sentiments : but the joys of life are 
short, and its miseries are long; he mounted 
and travelled fifteen miles more through dirt and 
desolation. 

At last the sunset, and all the horrors of dark- 
ness came upon him. He then repented the 
weak indulgence in which he had gratified him- 
self at noon with too long an interval of rest : 
yet he went forward along a path which he 
could no longer see, sometimes rushing sudden- 
ly into water, and sometimes incumbered with 
stiff clay, ignorant whither he was going, and 
uncertain whether his next step might not be 
the last. 

In this dismal gloom of nocturnal peregrina- 
tion his horse unexpectedly stood still. Mar- 
vel had heard many relations of the instinct of 
horses, and was in doubt what danger might be 
at hand. Sometimes he fancied that he was on 
the bank of a river still and deep, and sometimes 
that a dead body lay across the track. He sat 
still awhile to recollect his thoughts ; and as 
he was about to alight and explore the dark- 
ness, out stepped a man with a lantern, and 
opened the turnpike. He hired a guide to the 
town, arrived in safety, and slept in quiet. 

The rest of his journey was nothing but dan- 
ger. He climbed and descended precipices on 
which vulgar mortals tremble to look ; he passed 
marshes like the " Serbonian bog, where armies 
whole have sunk ;" he forded rivers where the 
current roared like the Egre or the Severn ; or 
ventured himself on bridges that trembled under 
him, from which he looked down on foaming 
whirlpools, or dreadful abysses: he wandered 
over houseless heaths, amidst all the rage of th« 
elements, with the snow driving in his face, 
and the tempest howling in his eai-s. 

Such are the colours in which Marvel paints 
his adventures. He has accustomed himself 
to sounding words and hj'perbolical images, till 
he has lost the pow^er of true description. In 
road through which the heaviest carriages 
pass without difficulty, and the post-boy every 
day and night goes and returns, he meets with 
hardships like those which are endured in Sibe- 
rian deserts, and misses nothing of romantic dan- 
ger but a giant and a dragon. When his dread- 
ful stoiy is told in proper terms, it is only that 
the way was dirty in winter, and that he expe- 
rienced the common vicissitudes of rain and 
sun-shine. 



54 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 50, r,\. 



Mo. 60.] Saturday, March SI, 1759. 



The character of Mr. Marvel has raised the 
merriment of some and the contempt of others, 
who do not sufficiently consider how often they 
liear and practise the same arts of exaggerated 
narration. 

There is not, perhaps, among the multitudes 
of all conditions that swarm upon the earth, a 
single man ■who does not believe that he has 
something extraordinary to relate of himself ; and 
who does not, at one time or other, summon the 
attention of his friends to the casualties of his 
adventures, and the vicissitudes of his fortune ; 
casualties and vicissitudes that happen alike in 
lives uniform and diversified; to the commander 
of armies, and the wi'iter at a desk, to the sailor 
who resigns himself to the wind and water, and 
the farmer whose longest journey is to the mar- 
ket. 

In the present state of the world men may 
pass through Shakspeare's seven stages of life, 
and meet nothing singular and wonderful. 
But such is every man's attention to himself, 
that what is common and unheeded when it is 
only seen, becomes remarkable and peculiar 
when we happen to feel it. 

It is well enough known to be according to 
the usual process of nattire that men should 
sicken and recover, that some designs should 
succeed and others miscarry, that friends should 
be separated and meet again, that some should 
be made angry by endeavours to please them, 
and some be pleased when no care has been used 
to gain their approbation ; that men and women 
should at first come together by chance, like 
each other so well as to commence acquaintance, 
improve acquaintance into fondness, increase or 
extinguish fondness by man-iage, and have chil- 
dren of different degrees of intellects and virtue, 
some of whom die before their parents, and 
others survive them. 

Yet let any tell his own story, and nothing of 
all this has ever befallen him according to the 
common order of things ; something has always 
discriminated his case ; some unusual concur- 
rence of events has appeared which made him 
more happy or more miserable than other mor- 
tals; for in pleasures or calamities, however 
common, every one has comforts and afiiictions 
of his own. 

It is certain that without some artificial aug- 
mentations, many of the pleasures of life, and 
almost all its embellishments, would fall to the 
ground. If no man was to express more delight 
than he felt, those who felt most would raise little 
euvy. If travellers were to describe the most la- 
boured performances of art with the same cold- 
ness as they survey them, all expectations of hap- 
piness fi'om change of place would cease. The 
pictui-cs of Raphael would hang without specta- 



tors, and the gardens of Versailles might be in- 
habited by hermits. All the pleasure that U 
received ends in an opportunity of splendid 
falsehood, in the power of gaining notice by the 
display of beauties which the eye was weary of 
beholding, and a history of happy moments, of 
which in reality the most happy was the last. 

The ambition of superior sensibility and su- 
perior eloquence disposes the lovers of arts to 
receive rapture at one time, and communicate it 
at another ; and each labours first to impose 
upon himself, and then to propagate the impos- 
ture. 

Pain is less subject than pleasure to caprices 
of expression. The torments of disease, and the 
grief for irremediable misfortunes, sometimes, 
are such as no words can declare, and can only 
be signified by groans, or sobs, or inarticulate 
ejaculations. Man h;is from nature a mode of 
utterance peculiar to pain, but he has none pe- 
culiar ^ pleasure, because he never has pleasure 
but in such degrees as the ordinary use of lan- 
guage may equal or surpass. 

It is nevertheless certain, that many pains 
as well as pleasures ax*e heightened by rhetorical 
affectation, and that the picture is, for the most 
part, bigger than the life. 

When we describe our sensations of another's 
sorrow either in friendly or ceremonious con- 
dolence, the customs of the world scarcely 
admit of rigid veracity. Pei-haps the fondest 
friendship would enrage oftener than comfort, 
were the tongue on such occasions faithfully 
to represent the sentiments of the heart ; and 
I think the strictest moralists allow forms of 
address to be used without much regard to 
their literal acceptation, when either respect 
or tenderness requires them, because they are 
universally known to denote not the degree but 
the species of our sentiments. 

But the same indulgence cannot be allowed to 
him who aggravates dangers incurred or sorrow 
endured by himself, because he darkens the pro- 
spect of futurity, and multiplies the pains of our 
condition by useless terror. Those who mag- 
nify their delights are less criminal deceivers, 
yet they raise hopes which are sure to be disap- 
pointed. It would be undoubtedly best, if we 
could see and hear every thing as it is, that 
nothing might be too anxiously dreaded, or too 
ardently pursued. 



No. 51.] Saturday, April 7, 1769* 



It has been commonly remarked, that eminent 
men are least eminent at home, that bright 
characters lose much of their splendour at a 
nearer view, and many who fill the world with 
tlrtir fame, excite very little reverence among 



No. 52.] 



THE IDLER, 



55 



those that surround them iu their domestic 
privacies. 

To blame or to suspect is easy and natural-. 
When the fact is evident, and the cause doubt- 
fid, some accusation is always engendered be- 
tween idleness and malignity. This disparity 
of general and familiar esteem is therefore im- 
puted to hidden vices, and to practices in- 
dulged in secret, but carefully covered from the I 
public eye. 

Vice will indeed always produce contempt, j 
The dignity of Alexander, though nations fell ! 
prostrate before him, was certainly held in lit- 
tle veneration by the partakers of his midnight 
revels, who had seen him, in the madness of 
wine, murder his friend, or set fire to the Per- 1 
sian palace at the instigation of a harlot ; and it j 
is well remembered among us, that the avarice 
of Marlborough kept him in subjection to his 
wife while he was dreaded by France as her 
conqueror, and honoured by the emperor as his 
deliverer. 

But though, where there is vice there must 
be want of reverence, it is not reciprocaUy true 
that when there is want of reverence there is al- 
ways vice. That awe which great actions or 
abilities impress will be iiievitably diminished 
by acquaintance, though nothing either mean or 
criminal should be found. 

Of men, as of every thing else, we must judge 
according to our knowledge. AVTicn we see of a 
hero only his battles, or of a writer only his 
books, we have nothing to allay our ideas of their 
greatness. We consider the one only as the 
guardian of his country, and the other only as 
the instructor of mankind. We have neither 
opportunity nor motive to examine the minuter 
parts of their lives, or the less apparent peculi- 
arities of their characters ; we name them with 
habitual respect, and forget, what we still con- 
tinue to know, that they are men like other 
mortals. 

But such is the constitution of the world, that 
much of life must be spent in the same manner 
by the wise and the ignorant, the exalted and 
the low. Men, however distinguished by ex- 
ternal accidents or intrinsic qualities, have all 
the same wants, the same pains, and, as far as 
tlie senses are consulted, the same pleasure. The 
petty cares and petty duties are the same in 
every station to every understanding, and every 
hour brings some occasion on which we all 
sink to the common level. We are all naked 
tUl We are dressed, and hungry till we are fed ; 
and the general's triumph, and sage's disputa- 
tion, end, like the humble labours of the smith 
or ploughman, in a dinner or in sleep. 

Those notions which are to be collected by 
reason, in opposition to the senses, will seldom 
stand forward in the mind, but lie treasured in 
the remoter repositories of memorj-, to be found 
only when they are sought. Whatever any raau 



may have written or done, his precepts or hii 
valour w^ill scarcely overbalance the unimpor- 
tant uniformity which runs thi'ough his time. 
We do not easily consider him as great, whom 
our own eyes show us to be little ; nor labour 
to keep present to our thoughts the latent excel- 
lencies of him who shares with us all our weak- 
nesses and many of our follies ; who like us ii 
delighted with slight amusements, busied with 
trilling employments, and distuibed by little 
vexations. 

Great powers cannot be exerted, but when 
great exigencies make them necessary. Great 
exigencies can happen but seldom, and therefore 
those qualities which have a claim to the vene- 
ration of mankind lie hid, for the most part, like 
subterranean treasures, over which the foot 
passes as on common ground, till necessity breaks 
open the golden cavern. 

In the ancient celebration of victory, a slave 
was placed on a triumphal car, by the side of the 
general, who reminded him by a short sentence, 
that he was a man. Whatever danger tliere 
might be lest a leader, in his passage to the ca- 
pitol, should forget tlie frailties of his nature, 
there was surely no need of such an admoni- 
tion ; the intoxication could not have continued 
long ; he would have been at home but a few 
hours before some of his dependents would have 
forgot his gi'catness, and shown him, that not- 
withstanding his laurels, he was yet a man. 

There are some who try to escape tliis domes- 
tic degradation, by labouring to appear always 
wise or always great; but he that strives against 
nature, will for ever strive in vain. To be grave 
of mien and slow of utterance ; to look with 
solicitude and speak with hesitation, is attain- 
able at will ; but the show of wisdom is ridicu- 
lous when there is nothing to cause doubt, as 
that of valour where there is nothing to be 
feared. 

A man who has duly considered the condition 
of his being, will contentedly yield to the courso 
of things ; he will not pant for distincti.;u 
where distinction would imply no merit ; but 
though on great occasions he may Avish to be 
greater than others, he will be satisfied in com- 
mon occurrences not to be less. 



No. u2.] Saturdav, Apiul l-t, 1759. 



Rcsfomare cupidinibtts. bor 

The practice of self-denial, or the forbearance of 
lawful pleasures, has been considered by almost 
every nation, from the remotest ages, as the 
highest exaltation of human Virtue ; and all 
have agreed to pay respect and veneration to 
those who abstained fn-m the deliglits of life, 



56 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 53. 



even when they did not censure those who en- 
joy them. 

The general voice of mankind, civil and bar- 
barous, confesses that the mind and body are at 
variance, and that neither can be made happy 
by its proper gratifications but at the expense of 
the other ; that a pampered body will darken 
the mind, and an enlightened mind will mace- 
rate the body. And none have failed to confer 
their esteem on those who prefer intellect to 
sense, who conti'ol their lower by their higher 
faculties, and forget the wants and desii'es of 
animal life for rational disquisitions or pious 
contemplations. 

The earth has scarcely a country so far ad- 
vanced towards political regularity as to divide 
the inhabitants into classes, where some orders 
of men or women are not distinguished by vo- 
luntary severities, and where the reputation of 
their sanctity is not increased in propiortion to 
the rigour of their rules, and the exactness of 
their performance. 

When an opinion to which there is no temp- 
tation of interest spreads wide and continues 
long, it may reasonably be presumed to have 
been issued by nature or dictated by reason. It 
has been often observed that the fictions of im- 
posture, and illusions of fancy, soon give way to 
time and experience ; and that nothing keeps its 
ground but truth, which gains every day new 
influence by new confirmation. 

But truth, when it is reduced to practice, 
easily becomes subject to caprice and imagina- 
tion ; and many particular acts will be wrong, 
though their general principle be right. It can- 
not be denied that a just conviction of the re- 
straint necessary to be laid upon the appetites 
has produced extravagant and unnatural modes 
of mortification, and institutions, which, how- 
ever favourably considered, will be found to vio- 
late nature without promoting piety. 

But the doctrine of self-denial is not weakened 
in itself by the errors of those who misinterpret 
or misapply it J the encroachment of the appe- 
tites upon the understanding is hourly perceived ; 
and the state of those, whom sensuality has en- 
slaved, is known to be in the highest degree des- 
picable and wretched. 

The dread of such shameful captivity may 
justly raise alarms, and wisdom will endeavour 
to keep danger at a distance. By timely caution 
and suspicious vigilance those desires maybe re- 
pressed, to which indulgence would soon give 
absolute dominion ; those enemies may be over- 
come, which, when they have been a while ac- 
customed to victory, can no longer be resisted. 

Nothing is more fatal to happiness or virtue, 
than tliat confidence which flatters us with an 
opinion of our own strength, and by assuring us 
of the power of retreat, precipitates us ii. to haz- 
ard. Some may safely venture farther than 
others into the regions of delight, lay themselves 



more open to the golden shafts of pleasure, and 
advance nearer to the residence of the Sirens ; 
but he that is best armed with constancy and] 
reason is yet vulnerable in one part or other, and 
to every man there is a point fixed, beyond j 
which, if he passes, he will not easily return. 
It is certainly most wise, as it is most safe, to 
stop before he touches the utmost limit, since 
every step of advance will more and more entice 
him to go forward, till he shall at last enter into 
the recesses of voluptuousness, and sloth and 
despondency close the passage behind them. 

To deny early and inflexibly, is the only art 
of checking the importunity of desire, and of 
preserving quiet and innocence. Innocent grati- 
fications must be sometimes withheld ; he that 
complies with all lawful desires will certainly 
lose his empire over himself, and in time either 
submit his reason to his wishes, and think all 
his desires lawful, or dismiss his reason as 
troublesome and intrusive, and resolve to snatch 
what he may happen to wish, without inquiring 
about right and wi'ong. 

No man, whose appetites are his masters, can 
perform the duties of his nature with strictness 
and regularity; he that would be superior to 
external influences must first become superior to 
his own passions. 

When the Roman general, sitting at supper 
with a plate of turnips before him, was solicited 
by large presents to betray his trust, he asked 
the messengers whether he that could sup on 
turnips was a man likely to sell his own coun- 
try. Upon him who has reduced his senses to 
obedience, temptation has lost its power ; he is 
able to attend impartially to virtue, and execute 
her commands without hesitation. 

To set the mind above the appetites is the end 
of abstinence, which one of the fathers observes 
to be not a virtue, but the ground- work of vir- 
tue. By forbearing to do what may innocently 
be done, we may add hourly new vigour or re- 
solution, and secure the power of resistance 
when pleasure or interest shall lend their charms 
to guilt. 



No. 53.1 Saturday, April 21, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



I HAVE a wife that keeps good company. You 
know that the word good varies its meaning ac- 
cording to the value set upon different qualities 
in diflTerent places. To be a good man in a col- 
lege, is to be learned ; in a camp, to be brave ; 
and in the city, to be rich. By good company 
in the plac« which I have the misfortune to in- 
habit, we understand not always those from 



No. 53.] 



THE IDLER. 



ST 



whom any good can be learned, whether wisdom 
or virtue ; or by whom any good can be confer- 
red, whether profit or reputation. Good com- 
pany is the company of those, whose birth is 
high, and whose riches are great; or of those 
whom the rich and noble admit to familiarity. 

I am a gentleman of fortune by no means ex- 
uberant, but more than equal to the wants of 
my family, and for some years equal to our de- 
sires. My wife, who had never been accustom- 
ed to splendour, joined her endeavours to mine in 
the superintendence of our economy ; we lived 
in decent plenty, and were not excluded from 
moderate pleasures* 

But slight causes produce great eflfects. All 
my happiness has been destroyed by change of 
place ; virtue is too often merely local : in some 
situations the air diseases the body, and in 
othei"s poisons the mind. Being obliged to re- 
move my habitation, I was led by my evil genius 
to a convenient house in a street where many 
of the nobility reside. We had scarcely ranged 
our furniture, and aired our rooms, when my 
wife began to grow discontented, and to wonder 
tvhat the neighbours would think when they 
saw so few chairs and chariots at her door. 

Her acquaintance, who came to see her from 
the quarter that we had left, mortified her with- 
out design, by continual inquiries about the 
ladies whose houses they viewed from our win- 
dows. She was ashamed to confess that she 
had no intercourse with them, and sheltered 
her distress under general answei-s, which al- 
ways tended to raise suspicion that she knew 
more than she would tell ; but she was often 
reduced to difficulties, when the course of 
talk introduced questions about the furniture or 
ornaments of their houses, w^hich, when she 
could get no intelligence, she Avas forced to pass 
slightly over, as things which she saw so often 
that she never minded them. 

To all these vexations she "vvas resolved to put 
an end, and redoubled her visits to those few of 
her friends who visited those who kept good 
company ; and, if ever she met a lady of qual- 
ity, forced herself into notice by respect and assi- 
duity. Her advances were generally rejected ; 
and she heard them, as they went down stairs 
talk how some creatures put themselves for- 
ward. 

She was not discouraged, but crept forward 
from one to another ; and as perseverance will 
do great things, sapped her way unperceived, 
till, unexpectedly, she appeared at the card table 
of lady Biddy Porpoise, a lethargic virgin, of 
seventy six, whom all the families in the next 
square visited very punctually when she was not 
at home. 

This was the first step of that elevation to 
which my wife has since ascended. For five 
months she had no name in her mouth but that 
of ladv Biddy, who, let the world say what it 



would, had a fine understanding, and such a 
command of her temper, that whether she woa 
or lost, she slept over her cards. 

At lady Biddy's she met with lady Tawdry, 
whose favour she gained by estimating her ear- 
rings, which were counterfeit, at twice the valu9 
of real diamonds. When she once entered 
two houses of distinction, she was easily admit- 
ted into more, and in ten weeks had all her 
time anticipated by parties and engagements* 
Every morning she is bespoke, in the sum- 
mer, for the gardens ; in the winter, for a sale ; 
every afternoon she has visits to pay, and every 
night brings an inviolable appointment, or an 
assembly in which the best compjmy in the town 
were to appear. 

You will easily imagine that much of my do- 
mestic comfort is withdrawn. 1 never see my 
wife but in the hurry of preparation, or the lan- 
guor of weariness. To dress and to undress is 
almost her whole business in private, and the 
servants take advantage of her negligence to in- 
crease expense. But 1 can supply her omis- 
sion by my own diligence, and should not much 
regret this new coiu-se of Ufa, it it did nothing 
more than transfer me to the care of our ac- 
counts. The changes which it has made are 
more vexatious. My wife has no longer the use 
of her understanding. She has no rule of ac- 
tion but the fashion. She has no opinion but 
that of the people of quality. She has no lan- 
guage but the dialect of her own set of company. 
She hates and admires in humble imitation ; 
and echoes the words charming and detestable 
without consulting her own perceptions. 

If for a few minutes we sit down together, 
she entertains me with the repartees of lady 
Cackle, or the conversation of lord Whiffler, and 
Miss Quick, and wonders to find me receiving 
with indifference sayings which put all the com- 
pany into laughter. 

By her old friends she is no longer very wil- 
ling to be seen, but she must not rid herself of 
them all at once : and is sometimes surprised by 
her best visitants in company which she would 
not show and cannot hide ; but from, the mo- 
ment that a countess enters, she takes care nei- 
ther to hear nor see them ; they soon find them- 
selves neglected, and retire ; and she tells her 
ladyship that they are somehow related at a 
great distance, and that as they are good sort o» 
people she cannot be rude to them. 

As by this ambitious imion with those that 
are above her, she is always forced upon disad- 
vantageous comparisons of her condition with 
theirs, she has a constant source of misery 
within ; and never returns from glittering as- 
semblies and magnificent apartments but she 
growls out her discontent, and wonders why 
she was doomed to so indigent a state. When 
she attends the dutchess to a sale, she always 
sees something she cannot buy ; and, that she 
I 



58 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 54. 



may not seem wholly insignificant, she will 
•sometimes venture to bid, and often make ac- 
quisitions whidi she did not want, at prices 
wliirli slie cannot afford. 

^Vhat adds to all this uneasiness is, that this 
fxpense is without use, and this vanity without 
/lonour ; she foi-sakes houses where she might 
ee courted, lor those where she is only suflered ; 
hor equals are daily made her enemies, and Jier 
sipi'riors will never be her friends. 

1 am, Sir, yomvs, &c. 



No. 64.] Saturdat, April 28, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



You have lately entertained your admirers with 
.the case of an unfortunate husband, and there- 
by given a demonstrative proof you are not 
averse even to hear appeals and terminate dif- 
ferences between man and wife; I therefore 
take the liberty to present you with the case of 
an injured lady, which, as it chiefly z'elates to 
what 1 think the lawyers call a point of law, I 
shall do in as juridical a manner as 1 am capa- 
ble, and submit it to the consideration of the 
learned ge-ntleraen of that profession. 

Imprimis. In the style of ray marriage arti- 
cles, a marriage was " had and solemnized," 
about six months ago, between me and Mr. 
Savechai'ges, a gentleman possessed of a plenti- 
ful fortune of his own, and one who, 1 was 
persuaded, v.ould improve, and not spend, 
mine. 

Before our marriage, Mr. Savecharges had 
fill along preferred the salutary exercise of 
walking on foot to the distempered ease, as he 
terms it, of lolling in a chariot; but, notwith- 
standing his fine panegyrics on walking, the 
great advantages the infantry were in the sole 
possession of, and the many dreadful dangers 
they escaped, he found I had very diff"erent 
notions of an equipage, and was not easily to be 
converted, or gained over to his party. 

An equipage I was determined to have, when- 
ever I man-ied. I too well knew the disposi- 
tion of my intended consort to leave the pro- 
viding one entirely to his honour, and flatter 
myself Mr. Savecharges has, in the articles 
made previous to oiu* marriage, agreed to keep 
me a coach ; but lest I should be mistaken, or 
he attorney should not have done me justice in 
methodising or legalising these half dozen 
■words, I r»'ill set about and transciibe that part 
of the agreement, which will explain the mat- 
ter to you mucli better than can be done by one 
who is so deeply interested in the event ; and 
btiov*' (ui what foundation I build my hopes of 



being soon under the iranssporting, delightful 
denomination of a fashionable lady, who enjoys 
the exalted and uiuch-envied felicity of bowling 
about in her own coach. 

" And further the said Solomon Savecharges, 
for divers good causes and considerations him 
hereunto moving, hath agreed, and doth hereby 
agree, that the said Solomon Savecharges shall 
and will, so soon as conveniently may be after 
the solemnization of the said intended marriage, 
at his own proper cost and charges, find and 
provide a certain vehicle or four-wheel carriage, 
commonly called or known by the name of a 
coach ; which said vehicle or Avheel carriage, so 
called or knoAvn by tl<e name of a coach, shall 
be used and enjoyed by the said Sukey Modish, 
his intended wife," (pray mind that, ]\Ir. 
Idler,) " at such tim.es and in such manner as 
she tJie said Sukey Modish shall think nt and 
convenient." 

Such, Mr. Idler, is the agreement my pas- 
sionate admirer entered into; and what the 
dear frugal husband calls a performance of 
it remains to be described. Soon after the 
ceremony of signing and sealing was over, our 
wedding-clothes being sent home, and, in short, 
every thing in readiness except the coach, my 
own shadow was scarcely more constant than 
my passionate lover in his attendance on me : 
weai'ied by his perpetual importunities for what 
he called a completion of his bliss, I consented 
to make him happy; in a few days I gave him 
my hand, and, attended by Hjinen in his saf- 
fron rohes, retired to a country-seat of my hus- 
band's, where the honey-moon flew over our 
heads ere we had time to recollect ourselves, or 
think of our engagements in town. Well, to 
town we came, and you may be sure. Sir, I ex- 
pected to step into my coach on my arrival here ; 
but what was my surprise and disappointment, 
when, instead of this, he began to sound in my 
ears, *' That the interest of money was low, 
very low; and what a terrible thing it was to 
be incumbered with a little regiment of servants 
in these hard times !" I could easily perceive 
what all this tended to, but would not seem to 
understand him ; which made it highly neces- 
sary for Mr. Savecharges to explain himself 
more intelligibly ; to harp upon and protest he 
dreaded the expense of keeping a coach. And 
tiiily, for his part, he cou^.d not conceive how 
the pleasure resulting from such a convenience 
could be any way adequate to the heavy expense 
attending it. I now thought it high time to 
speak with equal plainness, and told him, as 
the fortune I brought fairly entitled me to ride 
in my own coach, and as I was sensible his cir- 
cums>tiU)ces would very well alford it, he must 
pardon me if I insisted on a performance of 
his agreement. 

I appeal to you, Mr. Idler, whether any 
thing could be more civil, mere complaisantj 



No 55.] 



THE IDLER. 



59 



I than this ? And, would j'ou believe it, the crea- 
j tUQ'e in return, a few day after, accosted me, in 
I an oifended tone, with, " Madam, I can now 
i tell you your coach is ready ; and since you are 
I so passionately fond of one, 1 intend you the 
honour of keeping a pair of horses. — You in- 
i sisted upon having an article of pin-money, and 
horses are no part of ray agreement." Base, 
designing wretch ! — I beg your pardon, Mr. 
Idler, the very recital of such mean, ungentle- 
man-like behaviour fires my blood, and lights 
up a flame within me. But hence, thou worst 
of monsters, ill-timed Rage, and let me not spoil 
my cause for want of temper. 

Now, though I am convinced I might make a 
Worse use of part of my pin-money, than by ex- 
tending my bounty towards the support of so 
useful a part of the bi-ute creation ; yet, like a 
tinie-born Englishwoman, I am so tenacious of 
my rights and privileges, and moreover so good 
a friend to the gentlemen of the law, that I pro- 
test, Mr. Idler, sooner than tamely give up the 
point, and be quibbled out of my right, I will 
receive my^ pin-money, as it were, with one hand, 
and pay it to them with the other; provided 
they will give me, or, which is the same thing, 
my trustees, encouragement to commence a suit 
against this dear, frugal husband of mine. 

And of this I can't have the least shadow of 
doubt, inasmuch as I have been told by very 
good authority, it is some way or other laid 
down as a rule, " That whenever the law doth 
give any thing to one, it giveth impliedly what- 
ever is necessary for the taking and enjoying the 
same."* NoAr, I would gladly know what en- 
joyment I, or any lady in the kingdom, can have 
of a coach without horses ? The answer is ob- 
vious — None at all ! For as Serjeant Catlyne 
very wisely observes, " Though a coach has 
wheels, to the end it may thereby and by virtue 
thereof be enabled to move ; yet in point of uti- 
lity it may as well have none, if they are not put 
in motion by means of its vital parts, that is, 
the horses." 

And therefore. Sir, I humbly hope you and 
the learned in the law will be of opinion, that 
two certain animals, or quadruped creatures, 
commonly called or known by the name of 
horses, ought to be annexed to, and go along 
with the coach. 

SUKEY SaVECHARGES. 



No. 65.1 Saturday, May 5, 1759. 



Mr. Idler, 
I HAVE taken the liberty of laying before you 
my complaint, and of desiring advice or conso- 



• Coke on Lytttlton. 



lation with the gi'eater confidence, because I br« 
lieve many other writers have suffered the same 
indignities with myself, and hope my quari'el 
will be regarded by you and your readers as 
the common cause of literature. 

Having been long a student, I thought my- 
self qualified in time to become an author. M y 
inquiries have been much diversified and far ex- 
tended, and not finding my genius directing me 
by irresistible impulse to any particular subject, 
1 deliberated three years which part of know- 
ledge to illustrate by my labours. Choice is 
more often determined by accident than by rea- 
son : I walked abroad one morning with a cu- 
rious lady, and by her inquiries and observations 
was incited to write the natural history of the 
country in wliich 1 reside. 

Natural history is no work for one that 
loves his chair or his bed. Speculation may 
be pursued on a soft couch, but nature must 
be observed in the open air. I have collec- 
ted materials with indefatigable pertinacity. I 
hare gathered glow-worms in the evening, and 
suc^ils in the morning ; I have seen the daisy 
close and open ; 1 have heard the owl shriek at 
midnight, and hunted insects in the heat of 
noon. 

Seven years I was employed in collecting ani- 
mals and vegetables, and then found that my de- 
sign was yet imperfect. The subterranean trea- 
suies of the place had been passed unobserved, 
and another year was to be spent in mines and 
coal-pits. What I had already done supplied 
a sufficient motive to do more. I acquainted 
myself with the black inhabitants of metallic 
caverns, and, in defiance of damps and floods, 
wandered through the gloomy labyrinths, and 
gathered fossils from every fissure. 

At last I began to write, and as I finished any 
section of my book, read it to such of my friends 
as were most skilful in the matter which it 
treated. None of them were satisfied ; one dis- 
liked the disposition of the parts, another the 
colours of the style ; one advised me to enlarge 
another to abridge. I resolved to read no more, 
but to take my own way and write on, for by 
consultation I only perplexed my thoughts and 
retarded my work. 

The book -was at last finished, and I did not 
doubt but my labour would be repaid by profit, 
and my ambition satisfied w^ith honours. I con- 
sidered that natural history is neither temporary 
nor local, and that though I limited my inqui- 
ries to my own country, yet every part of the 
earth has productions common to all the rest. 
Civil history may be partially studied, the revo- 
lutions of one nation may be neglected by an- 
other ; but after that in which all have an in- 
terest, all must be inquisitive. No man can 
have sunk so far into stupidity as not to con- 
sider the properties of the gi-ound on which he 
walks, of the plants on which he feeds, or the 



m 



fo 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 56. 



animals that delight his ear, or .imnse his eye ; 
und therefore I computed that universal curio- 
sity would call for many editions of my book, 
and that in five years I should gain fifteen 
thousand pounds by the sale of thirty thousand 
copies. 

When I began to write, I insured the house ; 
and suffered the utmost solicitude when I en- 
trusted my book to the carrier, though I had 
secured it against mischances by lodging two 
transcripts in different places. At my arrival, 
I expected that the patrons of learning would 
contend for the honour of a dedication, and re- 
solved to maintain the dignity of letters by a 
haughty contempt of pecuniary solicitations. 

I took lodgings near the house of the Royal 
Society, and expected every morning a visit from 
the president. I walked in the Park, and 
wondered that I overheard no mention of the 
great naturalist. At last I visited a noble earl, 
and told him of my work : he answered, that he 
was imder an engagement never to subscribe. 
I was angry to have that refused which I did 
not mean to ask, and concealed my design of 
making him immortal. I went next day to an- 
other, and, in resentment of my late affront, of- 
fered to prefix his name to miy new book. He 
said, coldly, that " he did not understand those 
things ;" another thought "there were too many 
books ;" and another would " talk with me 
"when the races were over." 

Being amazed to find a man of learning so in- 
decently slighted, I resolved to indulge the phi- 
losophical pride of retirement and independence. 
I then sent to some of the principal booksellers 
the plan of my book, and bespoke a large room 
in the next tavern, that I might more commo- 
diously see them together, and enjoy the contest, 
while they were outbidding one another. I 
drank my coffee, and yet nobody was come ; at 
last I received a note from one, to tell me that 
he was going out of town ; and from another, 
that natiu'al history was out of his way. At 
last there came a grave man, who desired to see 
the work, and, without opening it, told me, 
that a book of that size " would never do." 

I then condescended to step into sliops, and 
mentioned my work to the masters. Some 
never dealt with authors ; others had their hands 
full ; some never had known such a dead time ; 
others had lost by all that they had published 
for the last twelvemonth. One offered to print 
my work, if I coujd procure subscriptions for 
five hundred, and would allow me two hundred 
copies for my property. I lost my patience, 
and gave him a kick ; for which he has indicted 
me. 

I can easily perceive that there is a combina- 
tion among them to defeat my expectations ; 
and I find it so general, that I apa sure it must 
have been long concerted. I suppose some of 
my friends, to whom I read the first part, gave 



notice of my design, and, perhaps, sold the 
treacherous intelligence at a higher price than 
the fi-audulence of trade will now allow me for 
my book. 

Inform me, Mr. Idler, what I must do; 
where must knowledge and industry find their 
recompense, thus neglected by the high, and 
cheated by the low? I sometimes resolve to 
print my book at my own expense, and, like the 
Sibyl, double the price ; and sometimes am 
tempted, in emulation of Raleigh, to throw it 
into the fire, and leave this sordid generation to 
the curses of posterity. Tell me, dear Idler, 
what I shall do. 

I am Sir, &c. 



No. 56.] Saturday, May 12, 1759. 



There is such difference between the pursuit* 
of men, that one part of the inhabitants of a 
great city lives to little other purpose than to 
wonder at the rest. Some have hopes and fears, 
wishes and aversions, which never enter into 
the thoughts of others, and inquiry is laborious- 
ly exerted to gain that which those who possess 
it are ready to throw away. 

To those who are accustomed to value every 
thing by its use, and have no such superfluity of 
time or money as may prompt them to unna- 
tural wants or capricious emulations, nothing 
appears more improbable or extravagant than 
the love of curiosities, or that desire of accumu- 
lating trifles, which distinguishes many by 
whom no other distinction could have ever been 
obtained. 

He that has lived without knowing to what 
height desire may be raised by vanity, with 
what rapture baubles are snatched out of the 
hands of rival collectors, how the eagerness of 
one raises eagerness in another, and one worth- 
less purchase makes a second necessary, may, by 
passing a few hours at an auction, learn more 
than can be shown by many volumes of maxims 
or essays. 

The advertisement of a sale is a signal which 
at once puts a thousand hearts in motion, and 
brings contenders from every part to the scene 
of distribution. He that had resolved to buy no 
more, feels his constancy subdued ; there is now 
something in the catalogue which completes his 
cabinet, and which he was never before able to 
find. He whose sober reflections inform him, that 
of adding collection to collection there is no end, 
and that it is wise to leave early that which must 
be left imperfect at last, yet cannot withhold 
himself from coming to see what it is that 
brings so many together, and when he comes is 
soon overpowered by his habitual passion ; he is 



No. 57.] 



THE IDLER. 



Cl 



attracted by rarity, seduced by example, and 
inflamed by competition. 

While the stores of pride and happiness are sur- 
veyed, one looks with longing eyes and gloomy 
countenance on that which he despairs to gain 
from a rich bidder ; another keeps his eye with 
care from settling too long on that which he 
most earnestly desires ; and another, with 
more art than virtue, depreciates that which 
he values most, in hope to have it at an easy 
rate. 

The novice is often surprised to see what mi- 
nute and unimportant discriminations increase 
or diminish value. An irregular contortion of 
a turbinated shell, which common eyes pass un- 
regarded, will ten times treble its price in the 
imagination of philosophers. Beauty is far from 
operating upon collectors as upon low and vul- 
gar minds, even where beauty might be thought 
the only quality that could deserve notice. 
Among the shells that please by their variety of 
colours, if one can be found accidentally de- 
formed by a cloudy spot, it is boasted as the pride 
of the collection. • China is sometimes pux'chas- 
cd for little less than its weight in gold, only 
because it is old, though neither less brittle nor 
better painted than the modern ; and brown 
china is caught up with ecstasy, though no reason 
can be imagined for which it should be preferred 
to common vessels of common clay. 
~ The fate of prints and coins is equally inex- 
plicable. Some prints are treasured up .xs in- 
estimably valuable, because the impression was 
made before the plate was finished. Of coins, 
the price rises not from the purity of the metiil, 
the excellence of the workmanship, the elegance 
of the legend, or the chronological use. A piece, 
of which neither the inscription can be read, 
nor the face distinguished, if there remain of it 
but enough to show that it is rare, will be sought 
by contending nations, and dignify the treasury 
in which it shall be shown. 

Whether this curiosity, so barren of immediate 
advantage, and so liable to depravation, does 
more harm or good, is not easily decided. 
Its harm is apparent at the first view. It fills 
the mind with trifling ambition ; fixes the at- 
tention upon things which have seldom any 
tendency towards virtue or wisdom ; employs in 
idle inquiries the time that is given for better 
purposes ; and often ends in mean and dis- 
honest practices, when desire increases by 
indulgence beyond the power of honest gratifi- 
cation. 

These are the eflFects of curiosity in excess ; 
but what passion in excess will not become vi- 
cious? All indifferent qualities and practices are 
bad if they are compared with those which are 
good, and good if they are opposed to those that 
are bad. The pride or the pleasure of making 
collections, if it be restrained by prudence and 
morality, produces a pleasing remission after 



more laborious studies ; furnishes an amusement 
not wholly unprofitable for that part of life, the 
greater part of many lives, which would other- 
wise be lost in idleness or vice ; it produces a 
useful traffic between the industry of indigence 
and the curiosity of wealth; it brings many 
things to notice that would be neglected, and, by 
fixing the thoughts upon intellectual pleasures, 
resists the natural encroachments of sensuality, 
and maintains the mind inlher lawful superiority. 



No. 67.] Saturday, May 19, 1759. 



Prudekce is of more fi'equent use than any 
other intellectual quality ; it is exerted on slight 
occasions, and called into act by the cursory 
business of common life. 

WTiatever is universally necessary, has been 
granted to mankind on easy terms. Prudence, 
as it is always wanted, is without great difficul- 
ty obtained. It requires neither extensive view 
nor profound search, but forces itself by spon- 
taneous impulse upon a mind neither great nor 
busy, neither engrossed by vast designs, nor dis- 
tracted by multiplicity of attention. 

Prudence operates on life in the same manner 
as rules on composition : it produces vigilance 
rather than elevation ; rather prevents loss than 
procures advantage ; and often escapes miscar- 
riages, but seldom reaches either power or hon- 
our. It quenches that ardour of enterprise by 
which every thing is done that can. claim praise 
or admiration ; and i*epresses that generous 
temerity which often fails and often suc- 
ceeds. Rules may obviate faults, but can 
never confer beauties ; and prudence keeps 
life safe, but does not often make it happy. The 
world is not amazed with prodigies of excellence, 
but when Avit tramples upon rules, and magna- 
nimity breaks the chains of prudence. 

One of the most prudent of all that have fal- 
len within my observation, is my old companion 
Sophron, who has passed through the world in 
quiet, by perpetual adherence to a few plain 
maxims, and wonders how contention and dis- 
tress can so often happen. 

The first principle of Sophron is to run no 
hazards. Though he loves money, he is of 
opinion that frugality is a more certain source 
of riches than industry. It is to no purpose 
that any prospect of large profit is set before him; 
he believes little about futurity, and does not 
love to trust his money out of his sight, for no- 
body knows what may happen. He has a 
small estate, which he lets at the old rent, be- 
caiise " it is better to have a little than nothing ;" 
but he rigorously demands payment on the stated 
day, for " he that cannot pay one quarter, cannot 
pay two." If he is told of any improvements in 
agriculture, be likes the old way, ha3 observed 



62 



that changes very seldom answer cxpeifatiou ; 
is of opinion that our forefathers knew how to 
till the ground as well as we; and eondudes 
with an argument tl)at notiiiiig can overpower, 
that the expense of jdanting and fencing is im- 
mediate, and the advantage distant, and tliat 
" he is no wise man who will quit a certainty 
for an uncertainty." 

• Another of Sophron's rules is " to mind no 
business but his own." In the state he is of no 
party; but hears and speaks of public affairs 
with the same coldness as of the administration 
of some ancient republic. If any flagrant act 
of fraud or oppression is mentioned, he hopes 
that "all is not true that is told:" if miscoix- 
duct or corruption puts the nation in a flame, he 
hopes that "every man means well." At elec- 
tions he leaves his dependents to their own 
choice, and declines to vote himself, for every 
candidate is a good man, whom he is unwilling 
to oppose or offend* 

If disputes happen among his neighbours he 
observes an invariable and cold neutrality. His' 
punctuality has gained him the reputation of 
honesty, and his caution that of wisdom ; and 
few would refuse to refer their claims to his 
award. He might have prevented many ex- 
pensive law-suits, and quenched many a feud in 
its first smoke; but always refuses the office of 
arbitration, because he must decide against one 
or the other. 

With the affairs of other families he is filways 
unacquainted. He sees estates bought and 
sold, squandered and increased, without prais- 
ing the economist, or censuring the spendthrift. 
He never courts the rising lest they should fall ; 
nor insults the fallen lest tliey should rise again. 
His caution has the appearance of virtue, and 
all who do not want his help praise his benevo- 
lence; but, if any man solicits his assistance, he 
has just sent away all his money; and, when 
the petitioner is gone, declares to his family that 
he is sorry for his misfortunes, has always 
looked upon him with particular kindness, and 
therefore could not lend him money, lest he 
should destroy their friendship by the necessity 
of enforcing payment. 

Of domestic misfortunes he has never heard. 
When he is told the hundredth time of a gentle- 
man's daughter who has married the coach- 
man, he lifts up his hands with astonishment, 
for he always thought her a very sober girl. 
W^hen nuptial quarrels, after having filled the 
country with talk and laughter, at last end in 
separation, he never can conceive how it hap- 
pened, for he looked upon them as a happy 
couple. 

If his advice is asked, he never gives any par- 
ticular direction, because events are uncertain, 
and he will bring no blame upon himself; but 
he takes the consulter tenderly by the hand, 
tells Liin he makes his case Lis own, and ad- 



THE IDLER. [No. 5S. | 

vises him not to act rashly, but to weigh tho 



reasons on both sides; observes, that a man 
may be as easily too hasty as too slow, and that 
as many fail by doing too much as too little; 
that " a wise man has two eai*s and one 
tongue;" and "that little said is soon mend- 
ed ;" that he could tell him this and that, but 
that after all every man is the best judge of his 
own affairs. 

With this some are satisfied, and go home 
with gi'eat reverence of Sophron's wisdom ; and 
none are offended, because every one is left in 
full possession of his own opinion. 1| 

Sophron gives no characters. It is equally II 
vain to tell him of vice and virtue; for he ha« 
remarked, that no man likes to be censured, 
and that very few are delighted with the praisea 
of another. He has a few terms which he uses 
to all alike. With respect to fortune, he be- 
lieves every family to be in good circumstances; 
he never ex;Jts any understanding by lavish 
praise, yet he meets with none but very sensible 
people. Every man is honest and hearty ; and 
every woman is a good creature. 

Thus Sophron creeps along, neither loved nor 
hated, neither favoured nor opposed : he has 
never attempted to gi'ow rich, for fear of grow- 
ing poor ; and has raised no friends, for fear of 
making enemies. 



No. 58.] Satukday, May 26, 1759. 



Pleasure is very seldom found where it U 
sought. Our bright blazes of gladness are com- 
monly kindled by unexpected sparks. The 
flowers which scatter their odours from time to 
time in the paths of life, grow up without cul- 
ture from seeds scattered by chance. 

Nothing is more hopeless than a scheme of 
merriment. Wits and humourists are brought 
together from distant quarters by preconcerted 
invitations ; they come attended by their ad- 
mirers, prepared to laugh and to applaud ; they 
gaze a while on each other, ashamed to be silent, 
and afraid to speak ; every man is discontented 
with himself, grows angry with those that give 
him pain, and resolves that he will contribute 
nothing to the merriment of such worthless 
company. Wine inflames the general malignity, 
and changes suilenness to petulance, till at last 
none can bear any longer the presence of the 
rest. They i*etire to vent their indignation in 
safer places, where they are he-ird with atten- 
tion ; their importance is restored, they recover 
their good humour, and gladden the night with 
wit and jocularity. 

Merriment is always the effect of a sudden 
impression. The jest which is expected, is al- 



No. 59.2 



ready destroyed. The most active imagination 
will be sometimes torpid undei* the frigid influ- 
ence of melancholy, and sometimes occasions 
will be wanting to tempt the mind, howover vo- 
latile, to sallies and excursions. Nothing was 
ever said with uncommon felicity, but by the 
co-operation of chance, and therefore, wit as well 
as valour must be content to share its honoui's 
with fortune. 

All other pleasures are equally uncertain ; the 
gi^noral remedy of ur.easiness is change of place; 
ahiiost every one has some journey of pleasure 
in his mind, with n-hich he Hatters his expecta- 
tion. He that trav<'ls in theory has no inconve- 
nience ; he has shade and sunshine at his dis- 
posal, and wherever he alights finds tables of 
j)lenty and looks of gayety. These ideas are In- 
dulged till the day of departure arrives, the 
chaise is called, and the progress of happiness 
begins. 

A few miles teach him the fallacies of imagi- 
nation. The road i3 dusty, trie air is sidtry, the 
horses are sluggisli, and the postillion brutal. 
He longs for the time of dinner, tJiat he may 
eat and rest. The inn is crowded, his orders 
are neglected, and nothing remains but that he 
devour in haste what the cook has spoiled, and 
drive on in quest of better entertainment. He 
linds at night a more commodious house, but 
the best is always worse than he expected. 

He at last enters his native province, and re- 
solves to feast his mind with the conversation of 
his old friends and the recollection of juvenile 
frolics. He stops at the house of his friend, 
whom lie designs to overpower with pleasure 
by the unexpected interview. He is not known 
till he tells his name, and revives the memory 
of himself by a gradual explanation. He is 
then coldly received and ceremoniously feast- 
ed. He hastes away to another, whom his af- 
airs have called to a distant place, and having 
seen the emoty house, goes away disgusted, by 
a disappointment which could not l^e Intended 
because it could not be foreseen. At the next 
house he finds every face clouded with misfor- 
tune, and is regarded with malevolence as an 
unreasonable intruder, who tomes not to visit 
but to insult them. 

It is seldom that we find either men or places 
such as we expect them. He that has pictured 
a prospect upon his fancy, will receive little 
pleasure from his ej^es ; he that has anticipated 
the conversation of a wit, will wonder to what 
prejudice he owes his reputation. Yet it is ne- 
cessary to hope, though hope should always be 
deluded ; for hope itself is happiness, and its 
irustrations, however frequent, are yet loss 

eadful than its extinction. 



THE IDLER. ^3 

No. 59.] Saturday, Junk 2, 1759. 



In the common enjoyments of life, we cannot 
very liberally indulge the present hoar, but by 
anticipating part of the pleasure which might 
have relieved the tediousness of another day; 
and any imcommon exertion of strength, or per- 
severance in labour, is succeeded by a long inter- 
VEil of languor and weariness. "VMiatever ad- 
vantage we snatch beyond the certain poi'tion 
allotted us by nature, is like money spent before 
it is due, which at the time of regular payment 
will be missed and regretted. 

Fame, like all other things which are suppos- 
ed to give or to increase happiness, is dispensed 
with the same equality of distribution. He that 
is loudly praised will be clamorously censured ; 
lie that rises hastily into fame will be in danger 
of sinking suddenly into oblivion. 

Of many writers who fiUed their age with 
wonder, and whose names we find celebrated in 
the books of their contemporaries, the works are 
now no longer to be seen, or are seen only 
amidst the lumber of libraries which are seldom 
visited, where they lie only to show the deceit- 
fulness of hope, and the uncertainty of honour. 

Of the decline of reputation many causes may 
be assigned. It is commonly lost because it 
never was deserved ; and was conferred at first, 
not by the sufl^rage of criticism, but by the fond- 
ness of friendship, or servility of flattery. The 
great and popular are veiy freely applauded ; 
but all soon grow weary of echoing to each other 
a name which has no other claim to notice, but 
that many mouths are pronouncing it at once. 

But many have lost the final reward of their 
labours because they were too hasty to enjoj' it 
They have laid hold on recent occurrences, and 
eminent names, and delighted their readers with 
allusions and remarks, in which all were inter- 
ested, and to which all therefore were attentive. 
But the effect ceased with its cause ; the time 
quickly came when new events drove the for- 
mer from memory, when the vicissitudes of the 
world brought new hopes and fears, transferred 
the love and hatred of the public to other agents, 
and the writer, whose works were no longer as- 
sisted by gratitude, or resentment, was left to 
the cold regard of idle curiosity. 

He that writes upon general principles, or de- 
livers universal truths, may hope to be often 
read, because his work will be equally useful at 
all times, and in every country ; but he cannot 
expect it to be received with eagerness, or to 
spread Avith rapidity, because desire can have no 
particular stimulation ; that which is to be loved 
long must be loved with reason rather than 
with passion. He that lays out his labours upon 
temporary subjects; easily finds readers, and 
quickly loses them ; for, what should make the 
book valued when its subject is no more ? 



64 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 60. \ 



These observations will show the reason why 
the poem of Iludibras is almost forgotten, how- 
ever embellished with sentiments and diversi- 
fied with allusions, however bright with wit, 
and however solid with truth. The hypocrisy 
which it detected, and the folly which it ridi- 
culed, have long vanished from public notice. 
Those who had felt the mischief of discord, and 
the tyranny of usurpation, read it with rapture, 
for every line brought back to memory something 
known, and gratified resentment by the just 
censure of something hated. But the book 
which was once quoted by princes, and which 
supplied conversation to all the assemblies of the 
gay and the witty, is now seldom mentioned, 
and even by those that aflfect to mention it, is 
seldom read. So vainly is wit lavished upon 
fugitive topics, so little can architecture secure 
duration when the ground is false. 



No. 60.] Saturday, June 9, 1759, 



Criticisai is a study by which men grow im- 
portant and formidable at a very small expense. 
The power of invention has been conferred by 
natui-e upon few, and the labour of learning 
those sciences which may by mere labour be ob- 
tained is too g. eat to be willingly endured ; but 
every man can exei't such judgment as he has 
upon the works of others ; and he whom nature 
has made weak, and idleness keeps ignorant, 
may yet support his vanity by the name of a 
Critic. 

1 hope it will give comfort to great numbers 
who are passing through the world in obscuri- 
ty, when 1 inform them how easily distinction 
may be obtained. All the other powers of lite- 
rature are coy and haughty, they must be long 
courted, and at last are not always gained ; but 
Criticism is a goddess easy of access and for- 
ward of advance ; who will meet the slow, and 
encourage the timorous ; the want of meaning 
she supplies with words, and the want of spirit 
she recompenses with malignity. 

This profession has one recommendation pe- 
culiar to itself, that it gives vent to malignity 
without real mischief. No genius was ever 
blasted by the breath of critics. The poison 
which, if confined, would have burst the heart, 
fumes away in empty hisses, and malice is set 
at ease with very little danger to merit. The 
critic is the only man whose triumph is with- 
out another's pain, and whose greatness does 
not rise upon another's rain. 

To a study at once so easy and so reputable, 
so malicious and so harmless, it cannot be ne- 
cessary to invite my readers by a long or la- 
boured exhortation ; it is sufficient, since all 
would be critics if they could, to show by one 



eminent example that all can be critics if thef 
will. 

Dick Minim, after the common course of 
puerile studies, in which he was no great pro- 
ficient, was put an apprentice to a brewer, with 
whom he had lived two years, when his undo 
died in the city, and left him a large fortune in 
the stocks. Dick had for six months bcfor« 
used the company of the lower players, of whom 
he had learned to scorn a trade, and, being now 
at liberty to follow his genius, he resolved to be 
a man of wit and humour. That he might be 
properly initiated in his new character, he fre- 
quented the coffee-houses near the theatres, 
where he listened very diligently, day after 
day, to those who talked of language and senti- 
ments, and unities and catastrophes, till by slow 
degrees he began to think that he understood 
something of the stage, and hoped in time to 
talk himself. 

But he did not trust so much to natural saga- 
city as wholly to neglect the help of books. 
When the theatres were shut, he retired to 
Richmond with a few select writers, whose 
opinions he impressed upon his memory by un- 
wearied diligence ; and, when he returned with 
other wits to the town, was able to tell, in very 
proper phrases, that the chief business of art is to 
follow nature ; that a perfect writer is not to be 
expected, because genius decays as judgment in- 
creases ; that the great art is the art of blotting; 
and that, according to the rule of Horace, every 
piece should be kept nine years. 

Of the great authors he now began to display 
the characters, laying down as a universal posi- 
tion, that all had beauties and defects. His 
opinion was, that Shakspeare, committing him- 
self wholly to the impulse of nature, wanted 
that correctness which learning would have 
given him ; and that Jonson, trusting to learn- 
ing, did not sufiiciently cast his ej'e on nature. 
He blamed the stanza of Spenser^ and could not 
bear the hexameters of Sidney. Denham and 
Waller he held the first reformers of English 
numbers ; and thought that if Waller could have 
obtained the strength of Denham, or Denham. 
the sweetness of Wallei*, there had been nothing 
wanting to complete a poet. He often expressed 
his commiseration of Dryden's poverty, and his 
indignation at the age which suffered him to 
write for bread ; he repeated with rapture the 
first lines of All for Love, but wondered at the 
corruption of taste which could bear any thing 
so unnatural as rhyming tragedies. In Otway 
he found uncommon powei-s of moving the pas- « 
sions, but was disgusted by his general negli-.^ | 
gence, and blamed him for making a conspirator - 
his hero ; and never concluded his disquisition 
without remarking how happily the sound of 
the clock is made to alarm the audience. South- i 
em would have been bis favourite, but that he ? 
mixes comic with tragic scenes, intercepts the 



No. 61.] 



THE IDLER. 



65 



natui*al course of the passions, and fills the mind 
with a wild confusion of mirth and melancholy. 
The versification of Rowe he thought too mel- 
odious for the stage, and too little varied in 
different passions. He made it the great fault 
of Congreve, that all his persons were wits, and 
that he always wrote with more art than na- 
ture. He considered Cato rather as a poem 
than a play, and allowed Addison to be tiie 
complete master of allegory and grave humour, 
but paid no great deference to him as a critic. 
He thought the chief mei'it of Prior was in liis 
easy tales and lighter poems, though he alluwed 
that his Solomon had many noble sentiments 
elegantly expressed. In Swift he discovered an 
inimitable vein of irony, and an easiness which 
all would hope and few would attain. Pope he 
was inclined to degrade from a poet to a versifier, 
and thought his numbers rather luscious than 
sweet. He often lamented the neglect of Phae- 
dra and Hippolitus, and wished to see the stage 
under better regulation. 

These assertions passed commonly uncon- 
tradicted ; and if now and then an opponent 
started up, he was quickly repressed by the suf- 
frages of the company, and JNIinim went away 
from every dispute with elation of heart and 
increase of confidence. 

He now grew conscious of his abilities, and 
began to talk of the present state of dramatic 
poetry; w^ondered what was become of the 
comic genius which supplied our ancestors with 
wit and pleasantry, and why no wi-iter could 
be found that durst now venture beyond a farce. 
He saw no reason for thinking that the vein of 
humour was exhausted, since we live in a coun- 
try where liberty suffers every character to 
spread itself to its utmost bulk, and which, 
therefore, produces more originals than all the 
rest of the world together. Of tragedy he con- 
cluded business to be the soul, and yet often 
hinted that love predominates too much upon 
the modern stage. 

He was now an acknowledged critic, and had 
his own seat in a coffee-house, and headed a party 
in the pit. Minim has more vanity rhan ill na- 
ture, and seldom desires to do much inischief ; he 
will perhaps murmur a little in the ear of him 
that sits next him, but endeavours to influence 
the audience to favour, by clapping Avhen an 
actor exclaims, " Ye gods !" or laments the 
misery of his country. 

By degrees he was admitted to rehearsals ; 
and many of his friends are of opinion, that our 
present poets are indebted to him for their hap- 
piest thoughts ; by his contrivance the bell was 
rung twice inBarbarossa, and by his persuasion 
the author of Cleone concluded his play with a 
couplet ; for what can be mere absurd, said 
Minim, than that part of a play should be 
rhymed, and part written in blank verse ? and 
by what acquisition of faculties is the speak- 



er, who never could find rhjTnes before, enabled 
to rhyme at the conclusion of an act ? 

He is the great investigator of hidden beau- 
ties, and is particularly delighted when be finds 
the sound an echo to the sense. He has read all 
our poets with particular attention to this deli- 
cacy of versification, and wonders at the supine- 
ness with which their works have been hither- 
to perused, so that no man has found the sound 
of a drum in this distich. 

" When palpit, drum ecclesiastic. 
Was beat with list iastead of a stick ;" 

and that the wonderful lines upon honour 
and a bubble, have hitherto passed without no- 
tice : 

" Honour is like the glassy bubble. 
Which costs philosophers such trouble : 
Where, one part crack'd, the whole docs fl}-, 
And wits are crack'd to lind out why." 

In these verses, says Minim, we have two 
striking accommodations of the sound to the 
sense. It is impossible to utter the two linc3 
emphatically without an act like that which 
they describe ; bubble and trouble causing a 
momentary inflation of the cheeks by the reten- 
tion of the breath, which is afterwax'tis forcibly 
emitted, as in the practice of blowirtg bub- 
bles. But the greatest exce'lence is in the thini 
line, which is cracked in the middle to express a 
crack, and then shivers into monosyllables. 
Yet hath this diamond lain neglected with com- 
mon stones, and among the innuuierable ad- 
mirers of Hudibras the observation of this 
superlative ptissage has been reserved for the 
sagacity of Minim. 



No. 61.] Satuuday, June 16, 1759. 



Mr. Minim had now advanced himself to the 
zenith of critical reputation; when he was in 
the pit, every eye in the boxes was fixed upon 
him ; when he entered his coffee-house, he was 
surrounded by circles of candidates, who passed 
their noviciate of literature under his tuition : 
his opinion was asked by all who had no opin- 
ion of their o'svn, and yet loved to debate and 
decide ; and no composition was supposed to 
pass in safety to posterity, till it had been se- 
cured by Minim's approbation. 

Minim professes gi'eat admiration of the w^is- 
dom and munificence by which the academies of 
the continent were raised ; and often wishes for 
some standard of taste, for some tribunal, to which 
merit may appeal from caprice, prejudice, and 
malignity. He has formed a plan for an acad- 
emy of criticism, where every work of imagi- 
* K 



66 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 6^. 



uatioD may be read before it is printed, and 
which shall authoritatively direct the theatres 
what pieces to receive oi' rfject, to exclude or 
to revive. 

Such an institution would, in Dick's opinion, 
spread the fame of English literature over Eu- 
rope, and make London the metropolis of ele- 
gance and politeness, the place to which the 
learned and ingenious of all countries would re- 
pair for instruction and improvement, and 
where nothing would any longer be applauded 
or endured that was not conformed to the nicest 
rules, and finished with the highest elegance. 

Till some happy conjunction of the planets 
shall dispose our i)rinces or ministers to make 
themselves immortal by such an academy, Min- 
im contents himself to preside four nights in a 
week in a critical society selected by himself, 
where he Is heard without contradiction, and 
w^hence his judgment is disseminated through 
the great vulgar and the small. 

When he is placed in the chair of criticism, he 
declares loudly for the noble simplicity of our 
ancestors, in opposition to the petty refinements, 
and ornamental luxuriance. Sometimes he is 
sunk in despair, and perceives false delicacy daily 
gaining ground, and sometimes bi'ightens his 
countenance with a gleam of hope, and predicts 
the revival of the true sublime. He then ful- 
minates his loudest censures against the monkish 
barbarity of rhyme ; wonders how beings that 
pretend to reason can be pleased Avith one line 
always ending like another ; tells how unjustly 
and unnaturally sense is sacrificed to sound; 
how often the best thoughts are mangled by the 
necessity of confining or extending them to the 
dimensions of a couplet ; and rejoices that ge- 
nius has, in our days, shaken oif the shackles 
which had encumbered it so long. Yet he al- 
lows that rhyme may sometimes be borne, if the 
lines be often broken, and the pauses judiciously 
diversified. 

From blank verse he makes an easy transition 
to Milton, whom he produces as an example of 
the slow advance of lasting I'eputation. Milton 
is the only writer in whose books Minim can 
read for ever without weariness. What cause 
is it that exempts this pleasure from satiety he 
has long and diligently inquired, and believes it 
to consist in the perpetual variation of the num- 
bers, by which the ear is gratified and the atten- 
tion awakened. The lines that are commonly 
thought rugged and unmusical, he conceives to 
have been wi'itten to temper the melodious 
luxury of the rest, or to express things by a pro- 
per cadence : for he scarcely finds a verse that 
has not this favourite beauty ; he declares that 
he could shiver in a hot-house when he reads 
that 

" the ground 
Burns frore, and cold perfornis tlie effect of fire ; 



and that, when Milton bewails hisblindnes, the 
verse, 

" So tbick a drop serene has quencL'd thette orbs," 

has, he knows not how, something that strikes 
him with an obscure sensation like that which 
he fancies would be felt from the sound of dark- 
ness. 

Minim is not so confident of his rules of judg- 
ment as not very eiigerly to catch new light 
fi'om the name of the author. He is commonly 
so prudent as to sx)are those whom he cannot 
resist, unless, as will sometimes happen, he 
finds the public combined against them. But 
a fresh pretender to fame he is strongly inclined 
to censure, till his own honour requires that he 
commend him. Till he knows the success of 
a composition, he intrenches himself in genej-al 
terms ; there are some new thoughts and beau- 
tiful passages, but there is likewise much Avhich 
he would have advised the author to expunge. 
He has several favourite epithets, of Avhich he 
has never settled the meaning, but which arc 
very commodiously applied to books which he 
iias not read, or cannot understand. One is 
manly, another is dry, another stiff, and ano- 
ther flimsy : sometimes he discovers delicacy of 
style, and sometimes meets with strange expres- 
sions. 

He is never so great nor so happy, as when a 
youth of promising parts is brought to receive 
his directions for the prosecution of his studies. 
He then puts on a very serious air; he advises 
the pupil to read none but the best authors, and, 
when he finds one congenial to his own mind, 
to study his beauties, but avoid his faults, and, 
when he sits do\^'n to write, to consider how 
his favourite author would think at the present 
time on the present occasion. He exhorts him 
to catch those moments when he finds his 
thoughts expanded and his genius exalted, but 
to take care lest imagination hurry him be- 
yond- the bounds of nature. He holds diligence 
the mother of suc<"-ess; yet enjoins him with 
great earnestness, not to read more than he can 
digest, and not to confuse his mind, by pursuing 
studies of contrary tendencies. He tells him, 
that every man has his genius, and that Cicero 
could never be a poet. The boy retires illumin- 
ated, resolves to follow his genius, and to think 
how Milton would have thought : and Minim 
feasts upon his own beneficence till another day 
brings another pupil. 



No. 62.] Saturday, June 23, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 
An opinion prevails almost universally in the 



No. 62.] 



world, that he who has money has every thing. 
This is not a modern paradox, or the tenet of a 
small and obscure sect, but a persuasion which 
appears to have operated upon most minds in 
all ages, and which is supported by authorities 
so numerous and so cogent, that nothing but 
long experience could have given me confidence 
to question its truth. 

But experience is the test by which all the 
philosophers of the present age agree, that 
speculation must be tried ; and I may therefore 
be allowed to doubt the power of money, since 
I have been a long time rich, and I have not 
yet found that riches can make me happy. 

My father was a farmer neither wealthy nor 
indigent, who gave me a better education than 
was suitable to my birth, because my uncle in 
the city designed me for his heir, and desired 
that I might be bred a gentleman. My uncle's 
wealth was the perpetual subject of couver- 
eation in the house; and when any little mis- 
fortune befei us, or any mortification dejected 
\is, my father always exhorted me to hold up 
my head, for my uncle would never marry. 

My uncle, indeed, kept his promise. Having 
his mind completely busied between his ware- 
house and the Change, he felt no tediousness of 
life, nor any want of domestic amusements. 
When my father died, he received me kindly ; 
but after a few months, finding no great pleas- 
ure in the conversation of each other, we part- 
ed ; and he remitted me a small annuity, on 
which I lived a quiet and studious life, Avithout 
any wish to grow great by the death of my 
benefactor. 

But though I never suffered any malignant 
impatience to take hold on my mind, I could 
not forbear sometimes to imagine to myself the 
pleasure of being rich ; and when I read of 
diversions and magnificence, resolved to try, 
when time should put the trial in my power, 
what pleasure they could afford. 

My uncle, in the latter spring of his life, 
when his ruddy cheek and his firm nerves 
promised him a long and healthy age, died of an 
apoplexy. His death gave me neither joy nor 
sorrow. He did me good, and I regarded him 
with gratitude ; but I could not please him, and 
therefore could not love him. 

He had the policy of little minds, who love to 
surprise ; and having always represented his 
fortune as less than it was, had, I suppose, often 
gratified himself with thinking, how I should 
be delighted to find myself twice as rich as I 
pxpected. My wealth was such as exceeded all 
the schemes of expense which I had formed ; 
and I soon began to expand my thoughts, and 
look round for some purchase of felicity. 

The most striking effect of riches is the splen- 
dour of dress, which every man has observed to 
enforce respect, and facilitate reception ; and 
my first desire was to be fine. I sent for a 



THE IDLER. 



67 



I tailor who was employed by the nobility, and 
ordered such a suit of clothes as 1 had often 
looked on with involuntary submission, and am 
ashamed to remember with what flutters of ex- 

' pectation I waited for the hour when I should 
issue forth in all the splendour of embroidery. 
The clothes were brought, and for three days 1 
observed many eyes turned towards me as I 
passed ; but I felt myself obstructed in the com- 
mon intercourse of civility, by an uneasy con- 
sciousness of my new appeai'ance ; as I thought 
myself more observed, I was more anxious 
about my mien and behaviour; and the mien 
which is formed by care is commonly i-idiculous. 
A short time accustomed me to myself, and my 
dress was without pain, and without pleasure. 
For a little while I tried to be a rake, but I 
began too late; and having by nature no turn 
for a frolic, was in great danger of ending in a 
drunkard. A fexer, in which not one of my 
companions paid me a visit, gave me time for 
reflection. I found that there was no great 
pleasure in breaking -nindows and lying in the 
round-house; and resolved to associate no hin- 
ger with those whom, though I had treated and 
bailed them, 1 couli not make friends. 

I then changed my measures, kept running 
horses, and had the comfort of seeing my name 
very often in the news. I had a chesnut horse, 
the grandson of Childers, who won four plates, 
and ten by-matches ; and a bay filly who carried 
off the five-years-old plate, and was expected to 
perform much greater exploits, when my groom 
broke lier wind, because I happened to catch 
him selling oats for beer. This happiness was 
soon at an end ; there was no pleasure when I 
lost, and when I won I could not much exalt 
myself by the virtues of my horse. I grew 
ashamed of the company of jockey-lords, and 
resolved to spend no more of my time in the 
stable. 

It was now known that I had money, and 
would spend it, and I passed four months in 
the company of architects, Avhose Avhole busi- 
ness was, to persu.ade me to build a house. I 
told them that 1 had more room than I wanted, 
but could not get rid of their importunities. A 
new plan was brought me every morning ; till 
at last my constancy was overpowered, and I 
began to build. The happiness of building last- 
ed but a little while, for though I love to spend, 
I hate to be cheated ; and I soon found, that to 
build is to be robbed. 

How I proceed in the pursuit of happiness, 
you shall hejir when I find myself disposed to 
write. 

I am, Sir, 

Tim. Kaxcjer. 



68 

No. 63.] Saturday, June 30, 1753. 



The natural progress of the works of men is 
from rudeness to convenience, from convenience 
to elegance, and from elegance to nicety. 

The first labour is enforced by necessity. The 
savage finds himself incommoded by heat and 
cold, by rain and yvind ; he shelters himself in 
the hollow of a rock, and learns to dig a cave 
where there was none before. He finds the 
sun and the wind excluded by the thicket, and 
when the accidents of the chase, or the con- 
Tenience of pasturage, lead him into more open 
places, he forms a thicket for himself, by plant- 
ing stakes at proper distances, and laying branch- 
es from one to another. 

The next gi'adation of skill and industry pro- 
duces a house closed with doors, and divided by 
partitions ; and apartments are multiplied and 
disposed according to the various degi*ees of 
power or invention ; improvement succeeds im- 
provement, as he that is ft-eed from a greater 
evil grows impatient of a less, till ease in time 
is advanced to pleasure. 

The mind set free from the importunities of 
natural want, gains leisure to go in search of 
superfluous gratifications, and adds to the uses 
of habitation the delights of prospect. ITien 
begins the reign of sjTnmetry ; orders of archi- 
tecture are invented, and one part of the edifice 
is conformed to another, without any other 
reason, than that the eye may not be ofi^ended. 

The passage is very short fi'om elegance to 
luxury. Ionic and Corinthian columns are 
soon succeeded by gilt cornices, inlaid floors, and 
petty ornaments, which show rather the w^ealth 
than the taste of the possessor. 

Language proceeds, like every thing else, 
through improvement to degeneracy. The ro- 
vers who first take possession of a country, 
having not many ideas, and those not nicely 
modified or discriminated, were contented, if by 
general terms and abrupt sentences they could 
make their thoughts known to one another ; as 
life begins to be more regulated, and property to 
become limited, disputes must be decided, and 
claims adjusted ; the differences of things are 
noted, and distinctness and propriety of expres- 
sion become necessary. In time, happiness and 
plenty give rise to curiosity, and the sciences are 
cultivated for ease and pleasure ; to the arts, 
which are now to be taught, emulation soon adds 
the art of teaching ; and the studious and ambi- 
tious contend not only who shall think best, but 
who shall teU their thoughts in the most pleas- 
ing manner. 

Then begin the arts of rhetoric and poetry, the 
regulation of figures, the selection of words, the 
modulation of periods, the graces of transition, 
the complicatioa of clauses, aid all tlie deli- 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 63, 64. 



cacies of style and subtiltiesof composition, use- 
ful while they advance perspicuity, and lauda- 
ble while they inci'ease pleasure, but easy to be 
refined by needless scrupulosity till they shall 
more embarrass the writer than assist the reader 
or delight him. 

The first state is commonly antecedent to the 
practice of writing; the ignorant essays of im- 
perfect diction pass aAvay with the savage gener- 
ation that uttered them. No nation can trace 
their language beyond the second period, and 
even of that it does not often happen that many 
monuments remain. 

The fate of the English tongue is like that of 
others. We know nothing of the scanty jargon 
of our barbarous ancestors ; but we have speci- 
mens of our language when it began to be adap- 
ted to civil and religious purposes, and find it 
such as might naturally be expected, artless and 
simple, unconnected and concise. The writers 
seem to have desired little more than to be under- 
stood, and perhaps seldom aspired to the praise 
of pleasing. Their verses were considered 
chiefly as memorial, and therefore did not differ 
from prose but by the measure or the rhyme. 

In this state, varied a little according to the 
different purposes or abilities of writers, our 
language may be said to have continued to the 
time of Gower, whom Chaucer calls his mas- 
ter, and who, however obscured by his scholar's 
popularity, seems justly to claim the honour 
which has been hitherto denied him, of show- 
ing his countrymen that something more was 
to be desired, anB that English verse might be 
exalted into poetry. 

From the time of Gower and Chaucer, the 
English writers have studied elegance, and ad- 
vanced their language, by successive improve- 
ments, to as much haraiony as it can easUy re- 
ceive, and as much copiousness as human know- 
ledge has hitherto required. These advances 
have not been made at all times with the same 
diligence or the same success. Negligence has 
suspended the course of improvement, or affecta- 
tion tiu'ned it aside ; time has elapsed with lit- 
tle change, or change has been made without 
amendment. But elegance has been long kept 
in view with attention as near to constancy as 
life permits, till every man now endeavours to 
excel others in accuracy, or outshine them in 
splendour of style, and the danger is, lest care 
should too soon pass to affectation. 



No. 64.] Saturday, July 7, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



As nature has made every man desirous of hap- 



No. 64>: 



THE IDLER. 



69 



piuess, I flatter myself, that you and your read- 
er cannot but feel some ciu-iosity to know the 
sequel of my story ; for though, by trying the 
different schemes of pleasure, I have yet found 
nothing in which I could finally acquiesce ; yet 
the narrative of my attempts will not be wholly 
without use, since we always approach nearer 
to truth as we detect more and more varieties of 
jrror. 

When I had sold my racers, and put the orders 
>f architectui'e out of my head, my next resolu- 
tion was to be a fine gentleman. I frequented 
the polite coffee-houses, grew acquainted with 
all the men of humour, and gained the right of 
bowing familiary to half the nobility. In this 
new scene of life my great labour was, to learn 
to laugh. I had been used to consider laughter 
as the effect of merriment ; but I soon learned 
that it is one of the arts of adulation, and, from 
laughing only to show that I was pleased, I now 
began to laugh when I wished to please. This 
was at first very difficult. I sometimes heard 
the story with dull indifference ; and, not ex- 
alting myself to merriment by due gi'adations, 
burst out suddenly into an awkward noise, 
which was not always favourably interpreted. 
Sometimes I was behind the rest of the com- 
pany, and lost the grace of laughing by delay, 
and sometimes when 1 began at the right time 
was deficient in loudness or in length. But, by 
diligent imitation of the best models, I attained 
at last such flexibility of muscles, that I was al- 
ways a welcome auditor of a story, and got the 
reputation of a good-natured fellow. 

This was something ; but much more was to 
be done, that I might be univei-sally allowed to 
be a fine gentleman. I appeared at court on all 
public days ; betted at gaming-tables, and play- 
ed at all the routs of eminence. 1 went every 
night to the opera, took a fiddler of disputed 
merit under my protectioii, became the head of 
a musical faction, and had sometimes concerts 
at my own house. I once thought to have at- 
tained the highest rank of elegance, by taking 
a foreign singer into keeping. But my favourite 
fiddler contrived to be arrested on the night of a 
concert, for a finer suit of clothes than I had ever 
presumed to wear, and I lost all the fame of 
patronage by refusing to bail him. 

My next ambition was, to sit for my picture. 
I spent a whole winter in going from painter to 
painter, to bespeak a whole length of one, and a 
half length of another; I talked of nothing but 
attitudes, draperies, and proper lights ; took my 
friends to see the pictures after every sitting ; 
heard every day of a wonderful performer in 
crayons and miniature, and sent my pictures to 
be copied ; was told by the judges that they were 
not like, and was recommended to other artists. 
At length, being not able to please my friends, 
I grew less pleased myself, and at last resolved 
to think no more about it. 



It was impossible to live in total idleness : and 
wandering about in search of something to do, I 
was invited to a weekly meeting of virtuosos, 
and felt myself instantaneously seized with an un- 
extinguishable ardour for all natural curiosities. 
I ran from auction to auction, became a critic in 
shells and fossils, bought a Hortus siccus of ines- 
timable value, and purchased a secret art of pre- 
serving insects, which made my collection the 
envy of the other philosophers. I found this 
pleasure mingled with much vexation. All the 
faults of my life were for nine months circulated 
through the town with the most active malig- 
nity, because I happened to catch & moth of pe- 
culiar variegation; and because I once outbid all 
the lovers of shells, and carried off a nautilus, it 
was hinted that the validity of my uncle's will 
ought to be disputed. I will not deny that I 
was very proud both of the moth and of the 
shell, and gratified myself with the envy of my 
companions, and perhaps more than became a 
benevolent being. But in time I grew weary 
of being hated for that which produced no advan- 
tage, gave my shells to children that wanted 
play-things, and suppressed the art of drying 
butterflies, because I would not tempt idleness 
and cruelty to kill them. 

I now began to feel life tedious, and wished to 
store myself with friends, with whom I might 
grow old in the interchange of benevolence. I 
had observed that popularity was most easily 
gained by an open table, and therefore hired a 
French cook, furnished my sideboard with great 
magnificence, filled my cellar with wines of 
pompous appellations, bought every thing that 
was dear before it was good, and invited all those 
who were most famous forjudging of a dinner. 
In three weeks my cook gave me warning, and, 
upon inquiry, told me that Lord Queasy, who 
dined with me the day before, had sent him an 
offer of double wages. My pride prevailed : I 
raised his wages, and invited his lordship to an- 
other feast. I love plain meat, and was there- 
fore soon weary of spreading a table of which I 
could not partake. I foimd that my guests, 
when they went away, criticised their entertain- 
ment, and censured my profusion ; my cook 
thought himself necessary, and took upon him 
the direction of the house ; and I could not rid 
myself of flatterers, or break from slavery, but 
by shutting up my house, and declaring my re- 
solution to live in lodgings. 

After all this, tell me, dear Idler, what I 
must do next ; I have health, I have money, 
and I hope that I have understanding ; yet, 
with all these, I have never been able to pass a 
single day which I did not wish at an end be- 
fore sunset. TeU me, dear Idler, what I shall 
do. 1 am. 



Yoiu* humble servant. 



Txiu Han 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 65, 66. 



No. 65.] Saturday, July H, 1759. 



The sequel of Clarendon's history, at last hap- 
pily published, is an accession to English liter- 
ature equally agi'eeable to the admirers of ele- 
gance and the lovers of truth ; many doubtful 
facts may now be ascertained, and many ques- 
tions, after long debate, may be determined by 
decisive authority. He that records transac- 
tions in which himself was engaged, has not 
only an opportunity of knowing innumerable 
particulars which escape spectators, but has his 
natural powers exalted by that ardour which 
always rises at the remembrance of our own im- 
portance, and by which CA-^ery man is enabled to 
relate his own actions better than another's. 

The difficulties through which this work has 
struggled into light, and the delays with which 
our hopes have been long mocked, naturally 
lead the mind to the consideration of the com- 
mon fate of posthumous compositions. 

He who sees himself surrounded by admirers, 
and whose vanity is hourly feasted with all the 
luxuries of studied praise, is easily persuaded 
that his influence will be extended beyond his 
life ; that they who cringe in his presence 
will reverence his memory, and that those who 
are proud to be numbered among his friends, 
■will endeavour to vindicate his choice by zeal 
for his reputation. 

Witli hopes like these, to the executors of 
Swift was committed the history of the last 
years of Queen Anne, and to those of Pope, the 
Avorks which remained unpriuted in his closet. 
The pei'formances of Pope were burnt by those 
whom he had perhaps selected from all mankind 
as most likely to publish them ; and the history 
had likewise perished, had not a straggling tran- 
script fallen into busy hands. 

The papers left in the closet of Pieresc, sup- 
plied his heirs with a whole winter's fuel ; and 
many of the labours of the learned bishop Lloyd 
were consumed in the kitchen of his descen- 
dants. 

Some works, indeed, have escaped total de- 
struction, but yet have had reason to lament the 
fate of orphans exposed to the frauds of unfaith- 
ful guardians. How Hale would have borne 
the mutilations which his " Pleas of the Crown" 
have suffered from the editor, they who know 
his character will easily conceive. 

The original copy of Burnet's history, though 
promised to some public * library, has been 
never given ; and who then can prove the fidel- 
ity of the publication, when the authenticity of 



• It would be proper to reposite, in some public 
place, the manuscript of Clarendon, which has nof 
escaped all suspicion of unfaithful publication. 



Clarendon's Iiistory, though printed with th« 
sfinction of one of the first universities of the 
world, had not an unexpected manuscript been 
happily discovered, would, with the help of fac- 
tious credulity, have been brought into question 
by the two lowest of all human beings, a 
scribbler for a party, and a commissioner of ex- 
cise? 

Vanity is often no less mischicA'^ous than neg- 
ligence or dishone:ty. He that possesses a val- 
uable manuscript, hopes to raise its esteem by 
concealment, and delights in the distinction 
which he imagines himself to obtain by keep- 
ing the key of a treasure which he neither uses 
nor imparts. From him it falls to some othei 
owner, less vain but more negligent, who con- 
siders it as useless lumber, and rids himself of 
the incumbrance. 

Yet there are some works which the authors 
must consign unpublished to posterity, however 
uncertain be the event, however hopeless be 
the trust. He that writes the history of 
his own times, if he adheres steadily to truth, 
will write that which his own times will not 
easily endure. He must be content to reposite 
his book till all private passions shall cease, 
and love and hatred give way to curiosity. 

But many leave the labours of half their life 
to their executors and to chance, because they 
will not send them abroad unfinished, and are 
unable to finish them, having prescribed to 
themselves such a degree of exactness as human 
diligence can scarcely attain. " Lloyd," says 
Burnet, "did not lay out his learning with the 
same diligence as he laid it in." He was al- 
Avays hesitating and inquiring, raising objections * 
and removing them, and waiting for clearer 
light and fuller discovery. Baker, after many 
years passed in biography, left his manuscripts 
to be buried in a library, because that was im- 
perfect Avhich could never be perfected. 

Of these learned men, let those who aspn*e to 
the same praise imitate the diligence, and avoid 
the scrupulosity. Let it be always remembered 
that life is short, that knowledge is endless, and 
that many doubts deserve not to be cleared. 
Let those whom nature and study haA'e qual- 
ified to teach mankind, tell us what they have 
learned Avhile they are yet able to tell it, and 
trust their reputation only to themselves. 



No. 66.] Saturday, July 21, 1759. 



No complaint is more frequently repeated 
among the learned, than that of the Avaste made 
by time among the labours of antiquity. Of 
those Avho once filled the civilized Avoild with 
their renoAvn, nothing is jioav left but their 



No. 67.] 



THE IDLER. 



71 



names, which are left only to raise desires that 
never can be satisfied, aud sorrow which never 
can be comfoi'ted. 

Had all the writings of the ancients been 
faithfully delivered down from age to age, had 
the Alexandrian library been spared, and the 
Palatine repositories remained unimpaired, 
how much might we have known of which we 
are now doomed to be ignorant ! how many 
laborious inquiries, and dark conjectures ; how 
many collations of broken hints, and mutilated 
passages might have been spared ! "We should 
have known the succession-s of princes, the re- 
volutions of empire, the actions of the great, 
and opinions of the wise, the laws and constitu- 
tions of every state, and the arts by whirh 
public grandeur aud hai)piness are acquired and 
preserved ; we should have traced the progress 
of life, seen colonies from -tlistant regions take 
possession of Euiopean deserts, and ti'oops of 
savages settled into connmunities by the desire 
of keeping what they had acquired ; we should 
have traced the gradations cf civility, and trav- 
elled upward to the original of things by the 
light of history, till in remoter times it had 
glimmered in fable, and at last sunk into dark- 
ness. 

If the works of imagination had been less 
diminished, it is likely that iM future times 
might have been supplied with inexhaustible 
amusement by the fictions of antiquity, llie 
tragedies of Sophocles and Euripides would 
have shown. all the stronger passions in all their 
diversities ; and the comedies of IVIenander 
would have furnished all the maxims of domes- 
tic life. Nothing would have been necessary 
to mortal wisdom but to have studied th«se 
great masters, whose knoAvledge would have 
guided doubt, and whose authority would have 
silenced cavils. 

Such are the thoughts that rise in every stu- 
dent, when his coiriosity is eluded, and his searches 
are frustrated ; yet it m.ay perhaps be doubted, 
whether our complaints are not sometimes in- 
considerate, and whether we do not imagine 
more evil than we feel. Of the ancients, enough 
I'emains to excite our emulation and direct our 
endeavours. Many of the works AVhich time 
has left us, Ave know to have been those that 
were most esteemed, and which antiquity itself 
considered as models ; so that, having the ori- 
ginals, we may without much regret lose the 
imitations. The obscurity which the want of 
contemporary writers often produces, only 
darkens single passages, and those commonly of 
slight importance. The general tendency of 
every piece may be known : and though that 
diligence deserves praise which leaves nothing 
unexamined, yet its miscarriages are not much 
to be lamented ; for the most useful truths are 
always universal, and unconnected with acci- 
dents and customs. 



Such is the general conspiracy of human na- 
ture against contemporary merit, that, if we 
had inherited from antiquity enough to afford 
employment for the laborious, and amusement 
for the idle, I know not what room v.-ould have 
been left for modern genius or modern industry; 
almost every subject Avould have been pre-occu- 
pied, and evei'y style would have been fixed by 
a precedent from which few w'ould have Aentur- 
ed to depart. Every writer Avould have had a 
rival, whose superiority v.as already acknow- 
ledged, and to whose fame his work would, 
even before it was seen, be maiked out for a 
sacrifice. 

We see how little the united experience of 
mankind hath been able to add to the heroic 
characters displayed by Homer, and how few 
incidents the fertile imagination of modern Italy 
has yet produced, which may not be found in 
the Iliad and Odyssey. It is likely, that if all 
the works of the Athenian philosophers had 
been extant, Malbranche and Locke would have 
been condemned to be silent readers of the an- 
cient metaphysicians ; and it is appai'eut, that, 
if the old writers had all remained, the Idler 
could not have written a disquisition on the 
loss. 



No. 67.] Satuudav, July 2S, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sin, 



In the observations which you have made on 
the various opinions and pursuits of mankind, 
you must often, in literary conversations, have 
met Avith men Avho consider dissipation as the 
great enemy of the intellect ; and maintain, 
that, in proportion as the student keeps himself 
within the bounds of a settled ])hin, he Avill 
more certainly advance in science. 

This opinion is, perhaps, generally true ; yet 
when Ave contemplate the inquisitive nature of 
the human mind, and its perpetual impatience 
of all i-estraint, it may be doubted whether the 
faculties may not be contracted by confining the 
attention ; and w hether it may not sometimes 
be proper to risk the certainty of little for the 
chance of much. Acquisitions of knowledge, 
like blazes of genius, are often fortuitous. Those 
who had proposed to themselves a methodical 
course of reading, light by accident on a new 
hook, Avhich seizes their thoughts and kindles 
their curiosity, and opens an vinexpected pros- 
pect, to Avhich the way Avhich they had pre- 
scribed to themselA'cs would never haA-e con- 
ducted them. 

To enforce and illustrate my meaning, I have 
sent you a journal of three days' emj^loj-ment, 
^cuisd among the papers of a late intiui&te ac- 



72 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 67. 



qualntance; who, as will plainly appear, was a 
man of vast designs, and of vast performances, 
though he sometimes designed one thing and 
performed another. 1 allow that the Specta- 
tor's inimitable productions of this kind may 
well discounige all subsequent journalists ; but 
as the subject of this is diiferent from tliat of 
any which the Spectator has given us, I leave 
it to you to publish or suppi'ess it. 

Mem. The following three days I propose to 
give up to reading ; and intend, after all the 
delays which have obtruded themselves upon 
me, to finish my " Essay on the Extent of the 
Mental Powers ;" to revise my " Treatise on 
Logic;" to begin the "Epic" which I have 
long projected; to proceed in my perusal of the 
" Scriptures with Grotius's Comment;" and at 
my leisure to regale myself with the works of 
classics ancient and modern, and to finish my 
*•' Ode to Astronomy." 

Monday. Designed to rise at six, hut, by my 
servant's laziness, my fire was not lighted be- 
fore eight, when I dropped into a slumber that 
lasted till nine, at which time I arose, and after 
breakfast at ten sat down to study, proposing to 
begin upon my Essay: but, finding occasion to 
consult a passage in Plato, was absorbed in the 
perusal of the Republic till twelve. I had ne- 
glected to forbid company, and now enters Tom 
Careless, who after half an hour's chat, insisted 
upon my going with him to enjoy an absurd 
character, that he had appointed, by an advei'- 
tisement, to meet him at a particular coffee- 
house. After we had for some time entertained 
ourselves with him, we sallied out, designing 
each to repair to his home ; but, as it fell out, 
coining up in the street to a man whose steel by 
his side declared him a butchei', we overheard 
him opening an address to a genteelish sort of 
young lady, whom he walked with : " Miss, 
though your father is master of a coal-lighter, 
and you will be a great fortune, 'tis true ; yet 
I wish I muy be cut into quarters, if it is not 
only love, and not lucre of gain, that is my mo- 
tive for offering terms of marriage." As this 
lover proceeded in his speech, he misled us the 
length of three streets, in admiration at the un- 
limited power of the tender passion that could 
soften even the heart of a butcher. We then 
adjourned to a tavern, and from thence to one 
of the public gardens, where I was regaled with 
a most amusing variety of men possessing great 
talents, so discoloured by affectation, that they 
only made thtm eminently ridiculous ; shallow 
things, who, by continual dissipation, had an- 
nihilated the few ideas nature had given them, 
and yet were celebrated for wonderful pretty 
gentlemen ; young ladies extolled for their Avit, 
because they were handsome ; illiterate empty 
women, as well as men, in high life, admired 
for their knowledge, from their being resolutely 
positive; and women of real understanding so 



far from pleasing the pf lite million, that they 
frightened them away, and were left solitary. 
When we quitted this entertaining scene, Tom 
pressed me irresistibly to sup with him. I 
reached home at twelve, and then reflected, that 
though indeed I had, by remarking various 
characters, improved my insight into human ; 
nature, yet still I neglected the studies proposed, i 
and accordingly took up my Treatise on Logic, I 
to give it the intended revisal, but found my 
spirits too much agitated, and could not forbear 
a few satirical lines, under the title of " The 
Evening's Walk." 

Tuesday. At breakfast, seeing my " Ode to 
Astronomy" lying on my desk, I was struck 
with a train of ideas, that I thought might con- 
tribute to its improvement. I immediately 
rang my bell to forbid all visitants, when my 
servant opened the door, with " Sir, Mr. Jaffray 
Gape." My cup dropped out of one hand, and 
my poem out of the other. 1 could scarcely ask 
him to sit ; he told me he was going to walk, 
but as there was a likelihood of i-ain, he would 
sit with me; he said, he intended at first to 
have called at Mr. Varan t's. but as he had not 
seen me a great while, he did not mind coming 
out of his way to wait on me ; I made him a 
bow, but thanks for the favour stuck in my 
throat. I asked him if he had been to the 
coffee house ; he replied, two hours. 

Under the oppression of this dull interrup- 
tion, I sat looking wishfully at the clock ; for 
which, to increase my satisfaction, 1 had chosen 
the inscription, " Art is long, and life is short ;" 
exchanging questions and answers at long in- 
tervals, and not without some hints that the 
weather glass promised fair weather. At half 
an hour after three he told me he would tres- 
pass on me for a dinner, and desired me to send 
to his house for a bundle of papers, about in- 
closing a common upon his estate, which he 
would read to me in the evening. I declared 
myself busy, and Mr. Gape went away. 

Having dined, to compose my chagrin, I took 
my Virgil, and several other classics, but could 
not calm my mind, or proceed in my scheme. 
At about five I laid my hand on a Bible that lay 
on my table, at first with coldness and insen- 
sibility ; but was imj»erceptibly engaged in a 
close attention to its sublime morality, and felt 
my heart expanded by warm philanthropy, and 
exalted to dignity of sentiment. I then cen- 
sured my too great solicitude, and my disgust 
conceived at my acquaintance, who had been so 
far from designing to offend, that he only meant 
to show kindness and respect. In this strain of 
mind I wrote " An Essay on Benevolence," and 
" An Elegy on Sublunary Disappointments." 
When I had finished these at eleven, 1 supped, 
and recollected how little 1 had adhered to my 1 1 
plan, and almost questioned the possibility of,: i 
pursuing any settled and uniform design; h'^w- 



No. 68.] 



THE IDLER. 



73 



«ver, I was not so fai' persuaded of the truth of 
these suggestions, but that I resolved to try once 
more at my scheme. As I observed the moon 
shining through my window, from a calm and 
bright sky, spangled with innumerable stars, I 
indulged a pleasing meditation on the splendid 
j scene, and finished my " Ode to Astronomy." 
■ Wednesday. Rose at seven, and employed 

j three hours in perusal of the " Scriptures with 
j Grotius's Comment ;" and after breakfast fell 
[ into meditation concerning my projected Epic ; 
and being in some doubt as to the particular 
lives of some heroes, whom 1 proposed to cele- 
brate, I consulted Bayle and Moreri, and Avas 
engaged two hours in examining various lives 
and characters, but then resolved to go to my 
employment. When I was seated at my desk, 
and began to feel the glowing succession of 
poetical ideas, my servant brought me a letter 
from a lawyer requiring my instant attendance 
at Gray's Inn for half an hour. I went fuU of 
vexation, and was involved in business till eight 
at night ; and then, being too much fatigued to 
study, supped, and went to bed. 

Here my friend's journal concludes, which 
perhaps is pretty much a picture of the manner 
in which many prosecute their studies. 1 there- 
fore resolved to send it you, imagining, that, if 
you think it worthy of appearing in your paper, 
some of your readers may receive entertainment 
by recognizingaresemblance between my friend's 
conduct and their own. It must he left to the 
Idler accurately to ascertain the proper methods 
of advancing in literature ; but this one position, 
deducible from what has been said above, may, 
I think, be reasonably asserted, that he who 
finds himself strongly atti'acted to any particu- 
lar study, though it may happen to be out of his 
proposed scheme, if it is not trifling or vicious, 
had better continue his application to it, since 
it is likely that he will with much more ease 
and expedition, attain that which a warm incli- 
nation stimulates him to pursue, than that at 
which a prescribed law compels him to toil. 
I am, Sir, &c. 



Ho. 68.] Saturday, Aug. 4, 1759. 



Among the studies which have exercised the in- 
genious and the learned for more than three cen- 
turies, none has been more diligently or more 
successfully cultivated than the art of transla- 
tion ; by which the impediments which bar the 
way to science are, in some measure, removed, 
and the multiplicity of languages becomes less 
incommodious. 

Of every other kind of writing the ancients 
have left us models which all succeeding ages ' 



have laboured to imitate ; but translation may 
justly be claimed by the modems as their own. 
In the first ages of the world instruction was 
commonly oral, and learning traditional, and 
what was not written could not be translated. 
^V^len alphabetical writing made the conveyance 
of opinions and the transmission of events more 
easy and certain, literature did not flourish in 
more than one country at once, for distant na- 
tions had little commerce with each other ; and 
those few whom curiosity sent abroad in quest 
of improvement, delivered their acquisitions im 
their own manner, desirous perhaps to be con- 
sidered as the inventors of that which they had 
I learned from others. 

The Greeks for a time travelled into Egypt, 
but they translated no books from the Egyptian 
language ; and when the Macedonians had over- 
thrown the empire of Persia, the countries that 
became subject to Grecian dominion studied only 
the Grecian literature. The books of the con- 
quered nations, if they had any among them, 
sunk into oblivion ; Greece considered herself 
as the mistress, if not as the parent of arts ; her 
language contained all that was supposed to be 
known, and, except the sacred writings of the 
Old Testament, I know not that the library of 
Alexandria adopted any thing from a foreign 
tongue. 

The Romans confessed themselves the scho- 
lars of the Greeks, and do not appear to have ex- 
pected what has since happened, that the igno- 
rance of succeeding ages would prefer them to 
their teachers. Every man, who in Rome as- 
pired to the praise of literature, thought it ne- 
cessary to learn Greek, and had no need of ver- 
sions when they coidd study the originals. 
Translation, however, was not Avholly neglec- 
ted. Dramatic poems could be understood by 
the people in no language but their own, and tlie 
Romans were sometimes entertained with the 
tragedies of Euripides and the comedies of Men- 
auder. Other works were sometimes attempted ; 
in an old scholiast there is mention of a Latin 
Iliad ; and we have not wholly lost Tully's ver- 
sion of the poem of Aratus ; but it does not ap- 
pear that any man grew eminent by interpret- 
ing another, and perhaps it was more frequent 
to translate for exercise or amusement, than for 
fame. 

The Arabs were the first nation who felt the 
ardour of translation : when they had subdued 
the eastern provinces of the Greek empire, they 
found their captives wiser than themselves, and 
made haste to relieve their wants by imparted 
knowledge. They discovered that many might 
grow wise by the labour of a few, and that im- 
provements might be made with speed, when 
they had the knowledge of former ages in their 
own language. They therefore made haste to 
lay hold on medicine and philosophy, and turned 
their chief authors into Arabic. Whether they 
I. 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 69. 



attempted the poets is not known ; their literary 
zeal was vehement, but it was short, and prob- 
ably expired before they had time to add the arts 
of elegance to those of necessity. 

The study of ancient literature was inter- 
rupted in Europe by the irruption of the north- 
ern nations, who subverted the Roman empire, 
and erected new kingdoms with new languages. 
It is not strange, that such confusion should 
suspend literary attention ; those who lost, and 
those who gained dominion, had immediate dif- 
ficulties to encounter, and immediate miseries 
to redress, and had little leisui-e, amidst the 
violence of war, the trepidation of flight, the 
distresses of forced migration, or the tumults of 
unsettled conquest, to inquire after ^eculative 
truth, to enjoy the amusement of imaginary 
adventures, to know the history of former ages, 
or study the events of any other lives. But no 
sooner had this chaos of dominion sunk into 
order, than learning began again to flourish in 
the calm of peace. When life and possessions 
were secure, convenience and enjoyment were 
soon sought, learning was found the highest 
gratification of the mind, and translation became 
one of the means by which it was imparted. 

At last, bj"^ a concui-rence of many causes, the 
European world was roused from its lethargy ; 
those arts which had been long obscurely studied 
in the gloona of monasteries became the general 
favourites of mankind ; every nation vied with 
its neighbour for the prize of learning ; the epi- 
demical emulation spread from south to north, 
and curiosity and translation found their way to 
Britain. 



No. 69. J Saturday, Aug. 11, 1759. 

He that reviews the progress of English litera- 
ture, will find that translation was very early 
cultivated among us, but that some principles 
either wholly erroneous or too far extended, 
hindered our success from being always equal 
to our diligence. 

Chaucer, who is genei'ally considered as the 
father of our poetry, has left a version of Boetius 
on the Comforts of Philosophy, the book which 
seems to have been the favourite of the middle 
ages, which had been translated into Saxon by 
King Alfred, and illustrated with a copious 
Comment ascribed to Aquinas. It may be sup- 
posed that Chaucer would apply more than 
common attention to an author of so much 
celebrity, yet he has attempted nothing higher 
than a version strictly literal, and has de- 
graded the poetical parts to prose, that the con- 
straint of versification might not obstruct his 
zeal for fidelity. 

Caxton taught us typography about the year 
3474. The first book printed in English was a 
traiislatioii. Caxton was both tlie translator 



and printer of the Destruction of Troye, a book 
which, in that infancy of learning, was con- 
sidered as the best account of the fabulous ages, 
and which, though now driven out of notice by 
authors of no greater use or value, still con- 
tinued to be read in Caxton's English to the 
beginning of the present centuiy. 

Caxton proceeded as he began, and except the 
poems of Gower and Chaucer, printed nothing | jj 
but translations f/om the French, in which • |^ 
the original is so scrupulously followed, that 
they afford us little knowledge of our own lan- 
guage ; though the words are English, the 
phrase is foreign. 

As learning advanced, new works were 
adopted into our language, but I thijik with 
little improvement of the art of translation, 
though foreign nations and other languages 
offered us models of a better method ; till in the 
age of Elizabeth we began to find that greater 
liberty was necessary to elegance, and that 
elegance was necessary to general reception ; 
some essays were then made upon the Italian 
poets, which deserve the praise and gratitude of 
posterity. 

But the old practice was not suddenly for- 
saken ; Holland filled the nation with literal 
translation ; and what is yet more strange, the 
same exactness was obstinately practised in the 
versions of the poets. This absurd labour of 
construing into rhyme was countenanced by 
Jonson in his version of Horace ; and whether 
it be that more men have learning than genius, 
or tliat the endeavours of that time were more 
directed towards knowledge than delight, the 
accuracy of Jonson found more imitatoi's than 
the elegance of Fairfax ; and IMay, Sandys, and 
Holiday, coiifined themselves to the toil of 
rendering line for line, not indeed with equal 
felicity, for May and Sandys were poets, and 
Holiday only a scholar, and a critic. 

Feltham appears to consider it as the establish- 
ed law of poetical translation, that the lines 
should be neither more nor fewer than those of 
the original; and so long had this prejudice 
prevailed, that Denham praises Fanshaw's ver- 
sion of Guarini as the example of a " new and 
noble way," as the first attempt to break the 
boifidaries of custom, and assert the natural 
freedom of the Muse. 

In the general emulation of wit and genius 
which the festivity of the Restoration produced, 
the poets shook off their constraint, and con- 
sidered translation as no longer confined to ser- 
vile closeness. But reformation is seldom the 
work of pure virtue, or unassisted reason. 
Translation was improved more by accident 
than conviction. The writers of the foregoing 
age had at least learning equal to their genius 
and being often more able to explain the senti- 
ments or illustrate the allusions of the ancients, 
than to exhibit their graces and transfuse their 



No. 70.] 



THE IDLER. 



75 



spii-it, were perhaps willing sometimes to con- 
ceal their want of poetry hy profusion of litera- 
ture, and therefore translated literally, that 
their fidelity might shelter their insipidity or 
harshness. The wits of Charles's time had sel- 
dom more than slight and superficial views ; 
and their care was, to hide their want of learn- 
ing hehind the colours of a gay imagination : 
they therefore translated always w^ith freedom, 
sometimes with licentiousness, and perhaps ex- 
pected that their I'eaders should accept spright- 
liness for knowledge, and consider ignorance 
and mistake as the impatience and negligence of 
a mind too i-apid to stop at difl&culties, and too 
elevated to descend to minuteness. 

Thus was translation made more easy to the 
writer, and more delightful to the reader ; and 
there is no wonder if ease and pleasure have 
found their advocates. The paraphrastic liber- 
ties have been almost imiversaUy admitted ; and 
Sherbourn, whose learning was eminent, and 
who had no need of any excuse to pass slightly 
over obscurities, is the only writer who in later 
times has attempted to justify or revive the an- 
cient severity. 

There is undoubtedly a mean to be observed. 
Dryden saw very early that closeness best pre- 
served an author's sense, and that freedom best 
exhibited his spirit ; he therefore will deserve 
the highest praise, who can give a representa- 
tion at once faithful and pleasing, who can con- 
vey the same thoughts with the same graces, 
and who, when he translates, changes nothing 
but the language. 



No. 70.] Saturday, Aug. 18, 1759. 

Few faults of style, whether real or imaginary, 
excite the malignity of a more numerous class 
of readers than the use of hard words. 

If an author be supposed to involve his thoughts 
in voluntary obscurity, and to obstruct, by un- 
necessary difficulties, a mind eager in pursuit 
of truth ; if lie writes not to make others learn- 
ed, but to boast the learning which he possesses 
himself, and wishes to be admired rather than 
understood, he counteracts the first end of 
writing, and justly suffers the utmost severity 
of censure, or the more afflictive severity of 
neglect. 

But words are only hard to those who do not 
understand them ; and the critic ought always 
to inquire, whether he is incommoded by the 
fault of the writer, or by his own. 

Every author does not write for every reader ; 
many questions are such as the illiterate part of 
mankind can have neither interest nor pleasure 
in discussing, and which therefore it would be a 
useless endeavour to level with common minds, 
by tiresome circumlocutions or laborious ex- 



planations ; and many subjects of general use 
may be treated in a different manner, as the 
book is intended for the learned or the ignorant. 
Diffusion and explication are necessary to the 
instruction of those who, being neither able nor 
a^.;customed to think for themselves, can learn 
only what is expressly taught; but they who 
can form parallels, discover consequences, and 
multiply conclusions, are best pleased with 
involution of argument and compression of 
thought ; they desire only to receive the seeds 
of knowledge which they may branch out by 
their own power, to have the way to truth 
pointed out, which they can then follow with- 
out a guide. 

The Guardian directs one of his pupils " to 
think with the wise, but speak with the vul- 
gar." This is a precept specious enough, but 
not always practicable. Difference of thoughts 
will produce difference of language. He that 
thinks with more extent than another wiU 
want words of larger meaning ; he that thinks 
with more subtilty will seek for tenns of more 
nice discrimination ; and where is the wonder, 
since words are but the images of things, that 
he who never knew the original should not 
know the copies ? 

Yet vanity inclines us to find faults any 
where rather than in ourselves. He that reads 
and grows no wiser, seldom suspects his own 
deficiency ; but complains of hard words and 
obscure sentences, and asks why books are writ- 
ten which cannot be understood? 

Among the hard words which are no longer 
to be used, it has been long the custom to num- 
ber terms of art. •' Every man," says Swift, 
" is more able to explain the subject of an art 
than its professors ; a farmer will teU you, in 
two words, that he has broken his leg ; but a 
surgeon, after a long discourse, shall leave you 
as ignorant as you were before." This could 
only have been said by such an exact observer of 
life, in gratification of malignity, or in ostentation 
of acuteness. Evei'y hour produces instances 
of the necessity of terms of art. Mankind 
could never conspire in uniforaa affectation ; it 
is not but by necessitj' that every science and 
every trade has its peculiar language. They 
that content themselves with general ideas may 
rest in general terms ; but those, whose studies 
or employments force them upon closer inspec- 
tion, must have names for particular parts, and 
words by which they may express various 
modes of combination, such as none but them- 
selves have occasion to consider. 

Artists are indeed sometimes ready to suppose 
that none can be strangers to words to which 
themselves are familiar, talk to an incidental in- 
quirer as they talk to one another, and make their 
knowledge ridiculous by injudicious obtrusion. 
An art cannot be taught but by its proper terms, 
but it is not always necessary to teach the art. 



76 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 71. 



That the -xnilgar express their thouglits clearly 
is far from true ; and what perspicuity can be 
found among them proceeds not from the easi- 
ness of their language, but the shallowness of 
their thoughts. He that sees a building as a com- 
mon spectator, contents himself with relating 
that it is great or little, mean or splendid, lofty 
or low ; all these 'rt'ords are intelligible and com- 
mon, but they convey no distinct or limited 
ideas ; if he attempts, without the terms of ar- 
chitecture, to delineate the parts, or enumerate 
the ornaments, his narration at once becomes 
unintelligible. The terms, indeed, generally 
displease, because they are understood by few ; 
but they are little understood only because few 
that look upon an edifice, examine its parts, or 
analyse its columns into their members. 

The state of every other art is the same ; as it 
is cursorily surveyed or accurately examined, 
different foiins of expression become proper. In 
morality it is one thing to discuss the niceties of 
the casuist, and another to direct the practice of 
common life. In agriculture, he that instructs 
the fjirmer to plough and sow, may convey his 
notions without the words which he would find 
necessary in explaining to philosophers the pro- 
cess of vegetation ; and if he, who has nothing 
to do but to be honest by the shortest way, will 
perplex his mind with subtile speculations ; or 
if he, whose task is to reap and thi'esh, will not 
be contented without examining the evolution of 
the seed, and circulation of the sap, the A^Titers 
whom either shall consult are very little to be 
blamed, though it should sometimes happen that 
they are read in vain. 



No. 71.] Saturdat, Aug. 25, 1759. 



Dick Shifter was horn in Cheapside, and hav- 
ing passed reputably through all the classes of 
St. Paul's school, has been for some years a 
student in the Temple. He is of opinion, that 
intense application dulls the faculties, and thinks 
it necessary to temper the severity of the law by 
books that engage the mind, but do not fatigue 
it. He has therefore made a copious collection 
of plays, poems, and romances, to Avhich he has 
recourse when he fancies himself tired with 
statutes and reports ; and he seldom inquires 
very nicely whether he is weary or idle. 

Dick has received from his favourite authors 
very strong impressions of a country life ; and 
though his furthest excursions have been to 
Greenwich on one side, and Chelsea on the 
other, he has talked for several years with great 
pomp of language and elevation of sentiments, 
about a state too high for contempt and too low 
for envy, about homely quiet, and blameless 



simplicity, pastoral delights, and rural inno- 
cence. 

His friends who had estates in the country, 
often invited him to pass the summer among 
them, but something or other had always hin- 
dered him ; and he considered that to reside in 
the house of another man was to incur a kind of 
dependence inconsistent with that laxity of life 
which he had imagined as the chief good. 

This summer he resolved to be happy, and 
procured a lodging to be taken for him at a soli- 
tary house, situated about thirty miles from 
London, on the banks of a small river, with 
corn fields before it, and a hill on each side co- 
vered with wood. He concealed the place of 
his retirement, that none might violate his ob- 
scurity, and promised himself many a happy 
day when he should hide himself among the 
trees, and contemplate the tumults and vexa- 
tions of the tOAvn. 

He stepped into the post-chaise with his heart 
beating and his eyes sparkling, was conveyed 
through many varieties of delightful prospects, 
saw hills and meadows, corn fields and pasture, 
succeed each other, and for four hours charged 
none of his poets with fiction or exaggeration. 
He was now within six miles of happiness, 
when, having never felt so much agitation before, 
he began to wish his journey at an end, and the 
last hour was passed in changing his posture, 
and quarrelling with his driver. 

An hour may be tedious, but cannot be long. 
He at length alighted at his new dwelling, and 
was received as he expected; he looked round 
upon the hiUs and rivulets, but his joints were 
stiff and his muscles sore, and his first request 
was to see his bed-chamber. 

He rested well, and ascribed the soundness of 
his sleep to the stiUiiess of the country. He ex- 
pected from that time nothing but nights of 
quiet and days of rapture, and, as soon as he had 
risen, wrote an account of his new state to one 
of his friends in the Temple. 

" Dear Frank, 
" I never pitied thee before. I am now as I 
could wish every man of wisdom and virtue to 
be, in the regions of calm content and placid 
meditation ; with all the beauties of nature so- 
liciting my notice, and all the diversities of plea- 
sm-e courting my acceptance ; the birds are 
chirping in the hedges, and the flowers bloom- 
ing in the mead ; the breeze is whistling in the 
wood, and the sun dancing on the water. I can 
now say with truth, that a man, capable of en- 
joying the purity of happiness, is never more 
busy than in his hours of leisure, nor ever less 
solitary than in a place of solitude. 

" I am, dear Frank, &c." 

When he had sent away his letter, he walked 
into the wood, with some inconvenience, ftv/rn 



No. 72.] 



THE IDLER. 



77 



the furze that pricked his legs, and the briers 
that scratched his face. He at last sat down 
under a tree, and heard with great delight a' 
shower, by which he was not wet, rattling 
among the branches : this, said he, is the true 
image of obscurity; we hear of troubles and 
commotions, but never feel them. 

His amusement did not overpower the calls 
of nature, and he therefore went back to order 
bis dinner. He knew that the country pro- 
duces whatever is eaten or drunk, and imagin- 
ing that he was now at the source of luxury, 
resolved to indulge himself with dainties which 
he supposed might be procured at a price next 
to nothing, if any price at all was expected ; and 
intended to amaze the rustics with his generosity, 
by paying more than they would ask. Of twenty 
dishes which he named, he was amazed to find 
that scarcely one was to be had; and heard, 
with astonishment and indignation, that all the 
fruits of the earth were sold at a higher price 
than in the streets of London. 

His meal was short and sullen ; and he re- 
tired again to his tree, to inquire how dearness 
could be consistent with abundance, or how 
fraud should be practised by simplicity. He 
was not satisfied with his own speculations, 
and, returning home early in the evening, went 
a while from window to window, and found 
that he wanted something to do. 

He inquired for a newspaper, and was told 
that farmers never minded news, but that they 
could send for it from the ale-house. A messen- 
ger was despatched, who ran away at full speed, 
but loitered an hour behind the hedges, and at 
last coming back with his feet purposely be- 
mired, instead of expressing the gratitude which 
Mr. Shifter expected for the bounty of a shil- 
ling, said that the night was wet, and the way 
dirty, and he hoped that his worship would not 
think it much to give him half a-crown. 

Dick now went to bed with some abatement 
of his expectations; but sleep, I know not how, 
revives our hopes, and rekindles om* desires. 
He rose early in the morning, surveyed the 
landscape, and was pleased. He walked out, 
and passed from field to field, without observing 
any beaten path, and wondered that he had not 
seen the shepherdesses dancing, nor heard the 
swains piping to their flocks. 

At last he saw some reapers and harvest- 
women at dinner. Here, said he, are the true 
Arcadians, and advanced courteously towards 
them, as afraid of confusing them by the dignity 
of his presence. They acknowledged his super- 
iority by no other token than that of asking him 
for something to drink. He imagined that he 
had now purchased the privilege of discourse, 
and began to descend to familiar questions, en- 
deavouring to accommodate his discourse to the 
gi'ossness of rustic imderstandings. Tlie clowns 
soon found that he did not know wheat ftom 



rye, and began to despise him ; one of the boys, 
by pretending to show him a bird's nest, de- 
coyed him into a ditch ; and one of the wenches 
sold him a bargain. 

This walk had given him no great pleasure ; 
but he hoped to find other rustics less coarse of 
manners, and less mischievous of disposition. 
Next morning he was accosted by an attorney, 
who told him, that, unless he made farmer 
Dobson satisfaction for trampling his grass, he 
had orders to indict him. Shifter was offended, 
but not terrified ; and, telling the attorney that 
he was himself a lawyer, talked so volubly ox" 
pettifoggers and barraters, that he drove him 
away. 

Finding his walks thus interrupted, he was 
inclined to ride, and being pleased with the ap- 
pearance of a horse that was grazing in a neigh- 
bouring meadow, inquired the owner, who 
warranted him sound, and would not sell him, 
but that he was too fine for a plain man. Dick 
paid down the price, and, riding out to enjoy 
the evening, feU with his new horse into a 
ditch ; they got out with difficulty, and as he 
was going to mount again, a countryman 
looked at the horse, and perceived him to be 
blind. Dick went to the seller, and demanded 
back his money ; but was told that a man who 
rented his gi-ound must do the best for himself, 
that his landlord had his rent though the year 
was barren, and that, whether horses had eyes 
or no, he should sell them to the highest 
bidder. 

Shifter now began to be tired with rustio 
simplicity, and on the fifth day took possession 
again of his chambers, and bade farewell to the 
regions of calm content and placid meditation. 



No. 72.] Saturday, Sept. 1, 1759. 



Men complain of nothing more frequently than 
of deficient memory ; and, indeed, every one 
finds that many of the ideas which he desired 
to retain have slipped in'etrievably away ; that 
the acquisitions of the mind ai'e sometimes 
equally fugitive with the gifts of fortune; and 
that a short intermission of attention more cer- 
tainly lessens knowledge than impaii"s an 
estate. 

To assist this weakness of our nature, manj 
methods have been proposed, all of which 
may be justly suspected of being ineffectual; 
for no art of memory, however its effects have 
been boasted or admired, has been ever adopted 
into general use, nor have those who possessed 
it appeared to excel others in readiness of recol- 
lection or multiplicity of attainments. 

There is another art of which all have felt 
the want, though Themistocles only confessed 



78 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 73. 



It. We suffer equal pain from the pertinacious 
adhesion of unwelcome images, as from the 
evanescence of those wliich are pleasing and 
useful ; and it may be doubted whether we 
should be more benefited by the art of memory 
or the art of forgetful ness. 

Forgetfulness is necessary to remembrance. 
Ideas are retained by renovation of that impres- 
sion which time is always wearing away, and 
which new images are striving to obliterate. 
If useless thoughts could be expelled from the 
mind, all the valuable parts of our knowledge 
would more frequently recur, and every recur- 
euce would reinstate them in their former place. 

It is impossible to consider, without some 
regret, how much might have been learned, or 
how much might have been invented by a ra- 
tional and vigorous application of time, useless- 
ly or painfully passed in the revocation of events 
Avhich have left neither good nor evil behind 
them, in grief for misfortunes either repaired 
or irreparable, in resentment of injuries known 
only to ourselves, of which death has put the 
authors beyond our power. 

Philosophy has accumulated precept upon 
precept, to warn us against the anticipation of 
futm'e calamities. All useless misery is certain- 
ly folly, and he that feels evils before they come 
may be deservedly censured ; yet surely to dread 
the future is more reasonable than to lament the 
past. The business of life is to go forwards : 
he who sees evil in prospect meets it in his way ; 
but he who catches it by retrospection tui-ns 
back to find it. 'ITiat which is feared may 
sometimes be avoided, but that which is re- 
gretted to-day, m.ay be regretted again to-mor- 
row. 

Regret is indeed useful and virtuous, and 
not only allowable but necessary, when it tends 
to the amendment of life, or to admonition of er- 
ror which we maybe again in danger of commit- 
ting. But a very small part of the moments 
spent in meditation on the past, produce any 
reasonable caution or salutary sorrow. Most 
of the mortifications that we have suffered, arose 
from the concurrence of local and temporary 
circumstances, which can never meet again ; 
and most of our disappointments have succeeded 
those expectations, which life allows not to be 
formed a second time. 

It would add much to human happiness, if an 
art could be taught of forgetting all of which the 
remembrance is at once useless and afflictive, if 
that pain which never can end in pleasure could 
be driven totally away, that the mind might 
perform its functions without incumbrance, and 
the past might no longer encroach upon the 
present. 

Little can be done well to which the whole 
mind is not applied ; the business of every day 
calls for the day to which it is assigned ; and 
ho will have no Itisare to regret yesterday's vex- 



ations who resolves not to have a new subject 
of regret to-uxorrow. 

But to f. rget or to remember at pleasure, are 
equally beyond the power of man. Yet as 
memory may be asisted by method, and the 
decays of knowledge repaired by stated times of 
recollection, so the power of forgetting is capa- 
ble of improvement. Reason will, by a resolute 
contest, prevail over imagination, and the power 
may be obtained of transferring the attention as 
judgment shall direct. 

The incursions of troublesome thoughts are 
often violent and importunate ; and it is not 
easy to a mind accustomed to their inroads to 
expel them immediately by putting better im- 
ages into motion ; but this enemy of quiet is 
above all others weakened by every defeat ; the 
reflection which has been once overpowered and 
ejected, seldom returns with any formidable 
vehemence. 

EmplojTnent is the great instniufient of intel- 
lectual dominion. The mind cannot retire from. 
its enemy into total vacancy, or tiu-n aside from 
one object but by passing to another. The 
gloomy and the resentful are always found 
among those who have nothing to do, or who 
do nothing. We must be busy about good or evil, 
and he to whom the present offers nothing 
will often be looking backward on the past. 



No. 73.] Saturday, Sept. 8, 1759. 



That every man would be rich if a wish could 
obtain riches, is a position which I believe few 
will contest, at least in a nation like ours, in 
which commerce has kindled a universal emu- 
lation of wealth, and in wliich money receives 
all the honours which are the proper right of 
knowledge and of virtue. 

Yet though v.-e are all labouring for gold, as 
for the chief good, and, by the natural effort of 
unwearied diliiience, have found many expedi- 
tious methods of obtaining it, we have not been 
able to improve the art of using it, or to make it 
produce more happiness than it afforded in for- 
mer times, when every declaimer expatiated on 
its mischiefs, and every philosopher taught his 
followers to despise it. 

Many of the dangers imputed of old to exor- 
bitant wealth are now at an end. The rich are 
neither way-laid by robbers nor watched by in- 
formers? there is nothing to be dreaded from 
proscriptions, or seizures. The necessity of 
concealing treasure has long ceased ; no man 
now needs counterfeit mediocrity, and condemn 
his plate and jewels to caverns and darkness, or 
feast his mind with the consciousness of cloud- 
ed splendour, of finery which is useless till it is 
shown, and which he dares not show. 



No. 74.] 



THE IDLER. 



79 



In our time the poor are strongly tempted to 
assume the appearance of wealth, but the 
wealthy very rarely desire to he thought poor ; 
for we are all at full liberty to display riches by 
every mode of ostentation. We fill our houses 
with useless ornaments, only to show that we 
can buy them ; we cover our coaches with gold, 
and employ artists in the discovery of new fash- 
ions of expense ; and yet it cannot be found that 
riches produce happiness. 

Of I'iches, as of every thing else, the hope is 
more than the enjoyment; while we consider 
them as the means to be used, at some future 
time, for the attainment of felicity, we press on 
our pursuit ardently and vigorously, and that 
ardour secures us from weariness of ourselves ; 
but no sooner do we sit down to enjoy our ac- 
quisitions, than we find them insufficient to 
fill up the vacuities of life. 

One cause which is not always observed of the 
insufficiency of riches is, that they very seldom 
make their owner rich. To be rich is to have 
inore than is desired, and more than is wanted ; 
to have something which may be spent without 
reluctance, and scattered without care, with 
which the sudden demands of desire may be 
gratified, the casual freaks of fancy indulged, oi 
the unexpected opportunities of benevolence im- 
proved. 

Avarice is always poor, but poor by her own 
fault. There is another poverty to which the 
rich are exposed with less guilt by the officious- 
ness of others. Every man, eminent for exu- 
berance of fortune, is surrounded from morning 
to evening, and from evening to midnight, by 
flatterers, whose art of adulation consists in ex- 
citing artificial wants, and in forming new 
schemes of profusion. 

Tom Tranquil, when he came to age, found 
himself in possession of a fortune of which the 
twentieth part might, perhaps, have made him 
rich. His temper is easy, and his aifections 
soft; he receives every man with kindness, and 
hears him with credidity. His friends took 
care to settle him by giving him a wife, whom, 
having no particular inclination, he rather ac- 
cepted than chose, because he was told that she 
was proper for him. 

He was now to live with dignity proportion- 
ate to his fortune. What his fortune requires 
or admits Tom does not know, for he has little 
skill in computation, and none of his friends 
think it their interest to improve it. If he was 
suffered to live by his own choice, he would 
leave every thing as he finds it, and pass through 
the woiid distinguished only by inoffensive gen- 
tleness. But the ministers of luxury have 
marked him out as one at whose expense they 
may exercise their arts. A companion, who had 
just learned the names of the Italian masters, 
runs from sale to sale, and buys pictiu-es, for 
which Mr. Tranquil pays, without inquix"ing 



where they shall be hung. Another fills his 
garden with statues, which Tranquil wishes 
away, but dares not remove. One of his friends 
is learning architecture, by building him a house, 
which he passed by and enquired to whom it 
belonged ; another has been for three years dig- 
ging canals, and raising mounts ; cutting trees 
down in one place, and planting them in an- 
other, on which Tranquil looks with a serene 
indifference, without asking what will be the 
cost. Another projector teUs him that a water- 
work, like that of Versailles, will complete the 
beauties of his seat, and lays his draughts before 
him ; Tranquil turns his eyes upon them, and 
the artist begins his explanations ; Tranquil 
raises no objections, but orders him to begin the 
work, that he may escape from talk which he 
does not understand. 

Thus a thousand hands are busy at his ex- 
pense without adding to his pleasures. He pays 
and receives visits, and has loitered in public or 
in solitude, talking in summer of the town, and 
in winter of tlie cormtry, without knowing that 
his fortune is impaired, till his steward told him 
this morning that he could pay the workmen no 
longer but by mortgaging a manor. 



No. 74.] Saturday, Sept. 15, 1759. 



In the mythological pedigree of learning, me- 
mory' is made the motlier of the muses, by which 
the masters of ancient wisdom, perhaps, meant 
to show the necessity of storing the mind copi- 
ously "vvith true notions, before the imagination 
should be suffered to form fictions or collect em- 
bellishments ; for the ^^•orks of an ignorant poet 
can afford nothing higher than pleasing sound, 
and fiction is of no other use than to display the 
treasures of memory. 

The necessity of memory to the acquisition of 
knowledge is inevitably felt and universally al- 
lowed, so that scarcely any other of the mental 
faculties are commonly considered as necessary 
to a student : he that admires the proficiency of 
another, always attributes it to the happiness of 
this memory ; and he that laments his own de- 
fects, concludes with a wish that his memory 
was better. 

It is evident that when the power of retention 
is weak, all the attempts at eminence of know- 
ledge must be vain ; and as few are willing to 
be doomed to perpetual ignorance, I may, per- 
haps, afford consolation to some that have fallen 
too easily into despondence, by observing that 
such weakness is, in my opinion, veiy rare, and 
that few have reason to complain of nature as 
unkindly sparing of the gifts of memory. 

In the common business of life, we find the 
memory of one like that of another, and honestly 



80 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 75. 



impute omissions not to involuntary forget- 
fulness, but culpable inattention ; but in literary 
inqixiries, failure is imputed rather to want of- 
memory than of diligence. 

We consider ourselves as defective in me- 
mory, either because we remember less than we 
desire, or less than we suppose others to remem- 
ber. 

Memory is like all other human powers, with 
which no man can be satisfied %vho measures 
them by what he can conceive, or by what he 
can desire. He whose mind is most capacious, 
finds it much too narrow for his wishes ; he that 
remembers most, remembers little compart d 
with what he forgets. He, therefore, that, 
after the perusal of a book, finds few ideas 
remaining in his mind, is not to consider the 
disappointment as peculiar to himself, or to re- 
sign all hopes of improvement, because he does 
not retain what even the author has, perhaps, 
forgotten. 

He who compares his memory with that of 
others, is often too hasty to lament the inequali- 
ty. Nature has sometimes, indeed, afforded 
examples of enormous, wonderful, and gigantic 
memory. Scaliger reports of himself, that, in 
his youth, he could repeat abovft a hundred verses, 
having once read them. ; and Barthicus declares 
that he wrote his " Comment upon Cladian" 
without consulting the text. But not to have 
such degrees of memory is no more to be la- 
mented than not to have the strength of Her- 
cules, or the swiftness of Achilles. He that, 
in the distribution of good, has an equal share 
with common men, may justly be contented. 
Where there is no striking disparity, it is 
difficult to know of two which remembers most, 
and still more difficult to discover which reads 
with greater attention, which has renewed 
the first impression by more frequent repetitions, 
or by what accidental combination of ideas either 
mind might have united any particular narra- 
tive or argument to its former stock. 

But memory, however impartially distribu- 
ted, so often deceives our trust, that almost 
every man attempts, by some artifice or other, 
to secm-e its fidelity. 

It is the practice of many readers to note, in 
the margin of their books, the most important 
passages, the strongest arguments, or the bright- 
est sentiments. Thus they load their minds 
with superfluous attention, repress the vehe- 
mence of curiosity by useless deliberation, and 
by frequent interruption break the current of 
narration or the chain of reasoning, and at last 
close the volume, and forget the passages and 
marks together. 

Others I have found unalterably persuaded 
that nothing is certainly remembered but what 
is transcribed ; and they have, therefore, passed 
weeks and months in transfeiTing large quota- 
tions to a common-place book. Yet why any 



part of a book, which can be consulted at pleas- 
ure, should be copied, I was never able to dis- 
cover. The hand has no closer correspondence 
with the memory than the eye. The act of 
writing itself distracts the thoughts, and what 
is read twice, is commonly better remember- 
ed than what is transcribed. The method, 
therefore, consumes time without assisting 
memory. 

The true art of memory is the art of atten- 
tion. No man will read with much advantage 
who is not able, at pleasure, to evacuate his 
mind, or who brings not to his author, an 
intellect defecated and pure, neither turbid 
with care, nor agitated by pleasure. If the 
repositories of thought are already full, what 
can they receive ; if the mind is employed on 
the past or future, the book will be held before 
the eyes in vain. What is read with delight 18 
commonly retained, because pleasure always se- 
cures attention ; but the books which are con- 
sulted by occasional necessity, and perused with 
impatience, seldom leave any ti'aces on the 
mind. 



No. 75.] Saturday, Sept. 22, 1759. 



In the time when Bassora was considered as 
the school of Asia, and flourished by the repu- 
tation of its professors, and the confluence of its 
students, among the pupils that listened round 
the chair of Albamazar vi^as Gelaleddin, a native 
of Tauris, in Persia, a young man, amiable in 
his manners and beautiful in his form, of 
boundless curiosity, incessant diligence, and 
irresistible genius, of quick apprehension, and 
tenacious memory, accurate without narrow- 
ness, and eager for novelty without inconstan- 
cy. 

No sooner did Gelaleddin appear at Bassora, 
than his virtues and abilities raised him to dis- 
tinction. He passed from class to class rather 
admired than envied by those whom the rapid- 
ity of his progress left behind : he was consult- 
ed by his fellow-students as an oraculous guide, 
and admitted as a competent auditor to the con- 
ferences of the sages. 

After a few years, having passed through all 
the exercises of probation, Gelaleddin was in- 
vited to a professor's seat, and intreated to in- 
crease the splendour of Bassora. Gelaleddin af- 
fected to deliberate on the proposal, with which, 
before he considered it, he resolved to comply ; 
and next morning retired to a garden planted > 
for the recreation of the students, and entering | 
a solitary walk, began to meditate upon his fu- 
ture life. 

" If I am thus eminent," said he, " in the 
regions of literatmre, I shall be yet more con 



Xo. 76.] 



THE IDLER. 



81 



spicuous in any other place ; if I should now 
devote myself to study and retirement, I must 
pass my life in silence, unacquainted with the 
delights of wealth, the influence of power, the 
pomp of greatness, and the charms of elegance, 
with all that man envies and desires, with all 
that keeps the world in motion, by the hope of 
gaining or the fear of losing it. I will, there- 
fore, depart to Tauris, where the Persian 
monarch resides in all the splendour of absolute 
dominion : my reputation will fly before me, 
my arrival will be congratulated by my kins- 
men and friends ; 1 shall see the eyes of those 
who predicted my greatness sparkling with 
exultation, and the faces of those that once 
despised me clouded with envy, or counterfeit- 
ing kindness by artificial smiles. I will show 
my wisdom by my discourse, and my modera- 
tion by my silence ; I will instruct the modest 
v.'ith easy gentleness, and repress the ostentatious 
by seasonable superciliousness. My apartments 
will be crowded by the inquisitive, and the 
vain, by those that honour and those that rival 
me ; my name will soon reach the court ; I 
shall stand before the throne of the emperor; 
the judges of the law ivill confess my wisdom, 
and the nobles will contend to heap gifts upon 
me. If 1 shall find that my merit, like that of 
others, excites malignity, or feel myself totter- 
ing on the seat of elevation, I may at last retire 
to academical obscurity, and become, in my 
lowest state, a professor of Bassora." 

Having thus settled his determination, he de- 
clared to his friends his design of visiting Tauris, 
and saw with more i»leasure than he ventured 
to express, the regret with which he was dis- 
missed. He could not bear to delay the honours 
to which he was designed, and therefore hasten- 
ed away, and in a short time entered the cap- 
ital of Persia. He was immediately immersed 
in the crowd, and passed unobserved to his 
father's house. He entered, and was received, 
though not unkindly, yet without any excess of 
fondness, or exclamations of rapture. His 
father had, in his absence, suffered many losses, 
and Gelaleddin was considered as an additional 
burden to a falling family. 

When he recovered from his surprise, he be- 
gan to display his acqxiisitions, and practised all 
the arts of narration and disposition : but the 
poor have no leisure to be pleased with elo- 
quence ; they heard his arg-uments without re- 
flection, and his pleasantries without a smile. 
He then applied himself singly to his brothers 
and sisters, but found them all chained down ' 
by invariable attention to their own fortunes, ' 
and insensible of any other excellence than that 
which could bring seme remedy for indigence. I 

It was new known in the neighbourhood that 
Gelaleddin was returned, and he sat for some I 
days in expectation that the learned would visit ■ 
him for consultation, or the great for entertain- 



ment. But who would be pleased or instructed 
in the mansions of poverty ? He then frequent- 
ed places of public resort, and endeavoured to 
attract notice by the copiousness of his talk. 
The sprightly were silenced, and went away to 
censure in some other place his arrogance and 
his pedantry ; and the duU listened quietly for a 
while, and then wondered why any man should 
take pains to obtain so much knowledge which 
would never do him good. 

He next solicited the viziers for employment, 
not doubting' but his service would be eagerly 
accepted. He was told by one that there was 
no vacancy in his office; by anothei-, that his 
merit was above any patronage but that of the 
emperor ; by a third, that he would not forget 
him ; and by the chief vizier, that he did not 
think literature of any great use in public busi- 
ness. He was sometimes admitted to their 
tables, where he exerted his wit and diffused his 
knowledge ; but he observed, that where, by en- 
deavour or accident, he had remarkably excelled, 
he was seldom invited a second time. 

He now returned to Bassora, wearied and 
disgusted, but confident of resuming his former 
rank, and reveling again in satiety of praise. 
But he who had been neglected at Tauris, was 
not much regarded at Bassora; he was con- 
sidered as a fugitive, who returned only because 
he could live in no other place ; his companions 
found that they had formerly over-rated his abili- 
ties, and he lived long without notice or esteem. 



No. 76.] Satuuday, Sei-t. S9, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



I WAS much pleased with your ridicule of those 
shallow critics, whose judgment, though often 
right as far as it goes, yet reaches only to in- 
ferior beauties, and who, unable to comprehend 
the whole, judge only by parts, and from thence 
determine the merit of extensive works. But 
there is another kind of critic still worse, who 
judges by narrow rules, and those too often 
false, and which, though they should be true, 
and founded on nature, will lead him but a very 
little way toward the just estimation of the 
sublime beauties in works of genius; for what- 
ever part of an art can be executed or criticiired 
by rules, that jart is no longer the work of 
genius, which implies excellence out of the 
reach of rules. P'or my own part I profess 
myself an Idler, and love to give my judgment, 
such as it is, from my immediate perceptions 
without much fatigiie of thinking: and I am of 
opinion, that if a man has not those perceptions 
right, it will be vain for him to endeavour to 
M 



82 



THE IDI.ER. 



[No. 77. 



supply their place by rules, Avliich may enable 
him to talk more learnedly, but not to distin- 
guish more acutely. Another reason which 
has lessened my affection for the study of criti- 
cism is, that critics, so far as I have observed, 
debar themselves from receiving any pleasure 
from the polite arts, at the same time that they 
profess to love and admire them : for these 
rules, being always uppermost, give them such 
a propensity to criticise, that instead of giving 
up the reins of their imagination into their 
author's hands, their frigid minds are employed 
in examining whether the performance be ac- 
cording to the rules of art. 

To those who are I'esolved to be critics in 
spite of nature, and at the same time have no 
great disposition to much reading and study, I 
would recommend to them to assume the char- 
acter of connoisseur, which may be purchased 
at a much cheaper rate than that of a critic 
in poetry. The remembrance of a few names 
of painters, with their general characters, with 
a few rules of the academy, which they may 
pick up among the painters, wiU go a great way 
towards making a very notable connoisseur. 

With a gentleman of this cast, I visited last 
week the Cartoons at Hampton-court ; he was 
just returned from Italy, a connoisseur of 
course, and of coiu'se his mouth full of nothing, 
but the grace of Raifaelle, the purity of Domi- 
nichlno, the learning of Poussin, and the air of 
Guido, the greatness of taste of the Carrachis, 
and the sublimity and grand contorno of Michael 
Angelo ; with all the rest of the cant of criti- 
cism, which he emitted with that volubility 
which generally those orators have who annex 
no ideas to their words. 

As we were passing through the rooms, in 
our way to the gallery, I made him observe a 
whole length of Charles the First, by Vandyke, 
as a perfect representation of the character as 
well as the figure of the man. He agreed it 
was very fine, but it wanted spirit and contrast, 
and had not the flowing line, without which a 
figure could not possibly be graceful. When 
we entered the gallery, I thought I could per- 
ceive him recollecting his rules by which he 
was to ci'iticise RaiFaeUe. I shall pass over his 
observation of the boots being too little, and 
other criticismis of that kind, till we arrived at 
St. Paul preaching. "This," says he, "is 
esteemed the most excellent of all the <;artoons ; 
what nobleness, what dignity there is in that 
figure of St. Paul ! and yet what an addition 
to that nobleness could RafFaelle have given, 
had the art of contrast been known in his time ! 
but, above all, the flowing line, which consti- 
tutes grace and beauty ! You would not have 
then seen an upright figure standing equally on 
both legs, and both hands stretched forward in 
the same direction, and his drapery, to all ap- 
jpearance, without the least art of disposition." 



The following picture is the Charge to Peter. 
" Here," says he, "are twelve upright figures; 
what a pity it is that Raffaelle was not ac- 
quainted with the pyramidal principle ! He 
would theik have contrived the figures in the 
middle to have been on higher ground, or the 
figures at the extremities stooping or lying, 
which would not only have formed the gi-oup 
into the shape of a pyramid, but likewise con- 
trasted the standing figures. Indeed," added 
he, " I have often lamented that so great a 
genius as Raff"aelle had not lived in this enlight- 
ened age, since the art has been reduced to prin- 
ciples, and had had his education in one of the 
modern academies ; what glorious works might 
we then have expected from his divine pencil '" 

I shall trouble you no longer with my 
fi'iend's observations, which, I suppose, you arc 
now able to continue by yourself. It is curious 
to observe, that, at the same time that great ad- 
miration is pretended for a name of fixed re- 
putation, objections are raised against those very 
qualities by which that gi'eat name was ac- 
quired. 

Those critics are continually lamenting that 
RafFaelle had not the colouring and harmony 
of Rubens, or the light and shadow of Rem- 
brant, without considering hoAV much the gay 
harmony of the former, and affectation of the lat- 
ter, would take from the dignity of Raffaelle; 
and yet Rubens had great harmony, and Rcm- 
brant understood light and shadow ; but what 
may be an excellence in a lower class of paint- 
ing, becomes a blemish in a higher; as the 
quick, sprightly turn, which is the life and 
beauty of epigrammatic compositions, would 
but ill suit with the majesty of heroic poetry. 

To conclude ; I would not be thought to in- 
fer from any thing that has been said, that rules 
are absolutely unnecessary; but to censure 
scrupulosity, a servile attention to minute ex- 
actness, which is sometimes inconsistent with 
higher excellency, and is lost in the blaze of 
expanded genius. 

I do not know whether you will think paint- 
ing a general subject. By inserting this letter, 
perhaps, you will incur the censure a man, 
would deserve, whose business being to enter- 
tain r, whole room, should turn his back to the 
company, and talk to a particular person. 

I am, Sir, &c. 



No. 77.] SATUKnAY, Oct. 6, 1759. 



Easy poetry is universally admired ; but I know 
not whether any rule has yet been fixed, by 
which it may be decided when poetry can be 
properly called easy. Horace has told us, that 
it is such as " every reader hopes to equal, but 



No. 78:] 



THE IDLE R. 



S3 



after long labour finds unattainable." This is 
a very loose description, in which only the effect 
is noted ; the qualities which produce this effect 
remain to be investigated. 

Easy poetry is that in which natural thoughts 
are expressed without violence to the language, ' 
The discriminating character of ease consists 
principally in the diction ; for all true poetry 
requires that the sentiments be natural. Lan- 
guage suffers violence by harsh or by daring ' 
figures, by transposition, by unusual accepta- ! 
tions of words, and by any license which would j 
be avoided by a writer of prose. "Where any ' 
artifice appears in the construction of the verse, ' 
that verse is no longer easy. Any epithet which 
can be ejected without diminution of the sense, ' 
any curious iteration of the same word, and all 
unusual, though not imgrammatical structure of 
speech, destroy the grace of easy poetry. 

The first lines of Pope's Iliad afford examples 
of many licenses which an easy writer must de- 
cline : — ■ 

Achilles' wrath, to Greece the direful spring 
Of woes unnumber'd heavenly goddess sing, 
The wrath which hurl'd to Pluto's gloomy reign 
The souls of michty chiefs untimely slain. 

In the first couplet the language is distorted 
by inversions, clogged with superfluities, and 
clouded by a harsh metaphor ; and in the second 
there are two words used in an uncommon 
sense, and two epithets inserted only to length- 
en the line ; all these practices may in a long 
work easily be pardoned, but they always pro- 
duce some degree of obscurity and ruggedness. 

Easy poetry has been so long excluded by am- 
bition of ornament, and luxm-iance of imagery, 
thatitsnatureseems now to be forgotten. Afiecta- I 
tion, however opposite to ease, is sometimes mis- ! 
taken for it : and those who aspire to gentle ele- i 
gance, collect female phrases and fashionable bar- ! 
barisms, and imagine that style to be easy which 
custom has made familiar. Such was the idea 
of the poet who wrote the following verses to a 
countess cutting paper: — 

Pallas grew vap'rish once and odd. 
She would not do the least right thing 

Either for goddess or for god, 
Nor work, nor play, nor paint, nor sing. 

Jove frowned, and " Use," he cried, " those eyes 
So skilful, and those hands so taper ; 

Do something exquisite and wise."— 
She bow'd, obey'd him, and cut paper. 

This vexing him who gave her birth. 
Thought by all heaven a burning shame, 

V/hat does she next, but Lids on earth 
Her Burlington do just the same! 

Pallas, you give yourself strange airs ; 

But sure you'll find it hard to spoil 
The sense and taste of one that bears 

The name of Saville and of Boyle. 



Alas ! OLO I a 1 example shown. 

How quickly all the sex pursue ! 
See, Madam .' see the arts o'erthrowu 

Between John Overton and you. 

It is the prerogative of easy poetry to be un- 
derstood as long as the language lasts; but modes 
of speech, which owe their prevalence only to 
modish folly, or to the eminence of those that 
use them, die away with their inventors, and 
their meaning, in a few years, is no longer 
known. 

Easy poetry is commonly sought in petty com- 
positions upon minute subjects ; but ease, though 
it excludes pomp, will admit greatness. Many 
lines in Cato's soliloquy are at once easy and 
sublime : — 

The divinity that stirs within us ; 

'Tis heaven itself that points oui an hereafter. 

And intimates eternity to man. 

If there is a power above us. 

And that there is all nature cr^es aloud 

Thro' all her works, he must delight in virtue. 

And that which he delights in must be happy. 

Nor is ease more contrary to wit than to sub- 
limity: the celebrated stanza of Cowley, on a 
lady elaborately dressed, loses nothing of its 
freedom by the spirit of the sentiuicut : — 

Th' adorning tlee with so much art 

Is but a barbarous ski'.l, 
'Tis like the pois'ning of a dart, 

Too apt before to kill. 

Cowley seems to have possessed the power of 
wi'iting easily beyond any other of our poets ; 
yet his pursuit of remote thoughts led him often 
into harshness of expression. Waller often at- 
tempted, but seldom attained it ; for he is too 
frequently driven into transpositions. The poets, 
from the time of Dryden, have gradually ad- 
vanced in embellishment, and cousequeiitly de- 
parted from simplicity and ease. 

To require from any author many pieces of 
easy poetry, would be, indeed, to oppress him 
with too hard a task. It is less difficult to write 
a volume ot lines swelled with epithets, bright- 
ened by figures, and stiffened by transpositions, 
than to produce a few couplets graced only by 
naked elegance and simple purity, which re 
quires so much care and skill, that I doubt whe 
ther any of our authors have yet been able, fo 
twenty lines together, nicely to obsei've the tru 
definition of easy poetry. 



No. 78.] Saturday, Oct. 13, 1759. 



I HAVE passed the summer in one of tlios', 
pliu-es to >vnich a minerjU spring gives the idle 



84 



THE IDLER. 



and liixvii'ioiis an annual reason for resorting, 
whenever they fancy themselves offended by the 
heat of I^ondon. What is the true motive of 
this periodical assembly I have never yet been 
able to dis.:over. The greater part of the visi- 
tants neither feel diseases nor fear them. What 
pleasure can be expected, more than the variety 
of the journey, I know not, for the numbers are 
too great for privacy, and too small for diver- 
sion. As each is known to be a spy upon the 
rest, they all live in continual restraint ; and 
having but a narrow range for censure, they 
gi'atify its cravings by preying on one another. 

But every condition has some advantages. In 
this confinement a smaller circle affords oppor- 
tunities for more exact observation. The glass 
that magnifies its object contracts the sight to a 
point ; and the mind must be fixed upon a single 
character to remark its minute peculiarities. The 
quality or habit which passes unobserved in the 
tumult of successive multitudes, becomes con- 
spicuous -when it is offered to the notice day 
after day ; and perhaps I have, without any 
distinct notice, seen thousands, like my late 
companions ; for when the scene can be varied 
at pleasure, a slight disgust turns us aside 
before a deep impression can be made upon the 
mind. 

There was a select set, supposed to be distin- 
guished by superiority of intellects, who always 
passed the evening together. To be admitted 
to their conversation was the highest honour 
of the place; many youths aspired to distinc- 
tion, by pretending to occasional invitations ! 
and the ladies were often wishing to be men, 
that they might partake the pleasm-es of learned 
society. 

I know not whether by merit or destiny, I 
was, soon after my arrival, admitted to this en- 
vied party, which I frequented till I had learn- 
ed the art by which each endeavoured to sup- 
port his character. 

Tom Steady was a vehement assertor of un- 
controverted tnith ; and by keeping himself out 
of the reach of contradiction had acquired all 
the confidence which the consciousness of ir- 
resistible abilities could have given. I was 
once mentioning a man of eminence, and after 
having recounted his vu'tues, endeavoured to 
represent him fully, by naentioning his faults. 
*' Sir," said Mi\ Steady, " that he has faults I 
can easily believe, for who is without them ? 
No man. Sir, is now alive, among the in- 
numerable multitudes that swarm upon the 
earth, however wise, or however good, who 
has not, in some degree, his failings and his 
faults. If there be any man faultless, bring 
him forth into public view, show him openly, 
and let him be known ; but I will venture to 
affirm, and, till the contrary be plainly shown, 
shall always maintain, that no such man is to 
bo found, Tell not me. Sir, of impeccability 



[No. 78. 

and perfection ; such talk is for those that are 
strangers in the world ; I have seen several na- 
tions, and conversed with all ranks of people; I 
have known the great and the mean, the learned 
and the ignorant, the old and the young, the 
clerical and the lay ; but I have never found a 
man without a fault ; and I suppose shall die in 
the opinion, that to be human is to be frail." 

To all this nothing could be opposed. I list- 
ened with a hanging head : Mr. Steady looked 
round on the hearers with triumph, and saw 
every eye congratulating his victory ; he de- 
parted, and spent the next morning in following 
those who retired from the company, and tell- 
ing them, with injunctions of secresy, how 
poor Sprightly began to take liberties with men 
wiser than himself; but that he suppressed hira 
by a decisive argument, which put him totally 
to silence. 

Dick Snug is a man of sly remark and pithy 
sententiousness ; he never immerges himself in 
the stream of conversation, but lies to catch his 
companions in the eddy : he is often very suc- 
cessful in breaking narratives, and confounding 
eloquence. A gentleman, giving the histoiy of 
one of his acquaintance, made mention of a 
lady that had many lovers: " Then," said 
Dick, " she was either handsome or rich." 
This observation being well received, Dick 
watched the progress of the tale ; and hearing 
of a man lost in a shipwreck, remarked, that 
" no man was ever drowned upon dry land." 

Will Startle is a man of exquisite sensibility, 
whose delicacy of frame, and quickness of dis- 
cernment, subject him to impressions from the 
slightest causes ; and who, therefore, passes his 
life between rapture and horror, in quiverings 
of delight, or convulsions of disgust. His emo- 
tions are too violent for many words ; his 
thoughts are always discovered by exclamations. 
" Vile, odious, hon-id, detestable," and "sweet, 
charming, delightful, astonishing," compose al- 
most his whole vocabulary, which he utters 
with various contortions and gesticulations, not 
easily related or described. 

Jack Solid is a man of much reading, who 
utters nothing but quotations ; but having 
been, I suppose, too confident of his memory, 
he has for some time neglected his books, and 
his stock grows every day more scanty. Mr. 
Solid has found an opportunity every night to 
repeat, from Hudibras, 

Douhtless the pleasure is as great 
Of being cheated, as to cheat ; 

and from Waller, 

Poets lose half (he praise they would have got, 
Were it hut known what they discretely blot. 

Dick Misty is a man of deep research, and 
forcible penetration. Others are content with 
superficial appearances : but Dick holds, that 



No. 79.] 



THE IDLER. 



85 



tKere is no effect without a cause, ami values 1 
himself upon his power of explaining the diffi- 
culty, and displaying the abstruse. Upon a dis- 
pute among us, which of two young strangers 
was more beautiful, " You," says ISIr. Misty, 
turning to me, " lilce Amaranthia better than 
CUoris. I do not wonder at the preference, for 
the cause is evident ; there is in man a percep- 
tion of harmony, and a sensibility of perfection, 
which touches the finer fibres of the mental tex- 
ture; and before reason can descend from her 
throne, to pass her sentence upon the things 
compared, drives us towards the object propor- 
tioned to our faculties, by an impulse gentle, yet 
irresistible; for the harmonic system of the uni- 
verse, and the reciprocal magnetism of similar 
natures, are always operating towards confor- 
mity and vmion ; nor can the powers of the soul 
cease from agitation, till they find something on 
which they can repose." To this nothing was 
opposed ; and Amaranthia was acknowledged to 
excel Chloris. 

Of the rest you may expect an account from. 
Sir, yours, 

Robin Spritely. 



No. 79.] Saturday, Oct. 20, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



Your acceptance of a former letter on painting, 
gives me encouragement to offer a few more 
sketches on the same subject. 

Amongst the painters and the writers on paint- 
ing, there is one maxim universally admitted, 
and continually iticukated. Imitate nature is 
the invariable rule ; but I know none who have 
explained in Avhat manner this rule is to be un- 
derstood ; the consequence of which is, that 
every one takes it in the most obvious sense, 
that objects are represented naturally when 
they have such relief tliat they seem real. It 
may appear strange, pei'haps, to hear this sense 
of the rule disputed ; but it must be considered, 
that, if the excellence of a painter consisted only 
in this kind of imitation, painting must lose its 
rank, and be no longer considered as a liberal 
art, and sister to poetry, this imitation being 
merely mechanical, in which the slowest intellect 
is always sure to succeed best ; for the painter of 
genius cannot stoop to drudgery, in which the 
understanding has no part; and what pretence 
has the art to claim kindred with poetry, but by 
its powers over the imagination ? To tliis power 
the painter of genius directs his aim ; in this 
ipnse he studies nature, and often arrives at his 
end, even by being uanaiEui-al in the confined 
eensff of the word. 



Tlie grand style of painting requires this mi- 
nute attention to be carefully avoided, and must 
be kept as separate from it as the style of poetry 
from that of history. Poetical ornaments de- 
stroy that air of truth and plainness which 
ought to characterise history ; but the very being 
of poetry consists in departing from this plain 
narration, and adopting every ornam^ent that will 
wann the imagination. To desire to see the 
excellencies of each style united, to mingle the 
Dutch with the Italian school, is to join con- 
trarieties which cannot subsist together, and 
which destroy the efficacy of each other. The 
Italian attends only to the invariable, the gi-eat 
and general ideas v/hich are fixed and inherent 
in universal nature ; the Dutch, on the con- 
trary, to literal truth, and a minute exactness 
in the detail, as 1 may say of nature modified by 
accident. The attention to these petty peculi- 
arities is the very cause of this naturalness, so 
much admired in the Dutch pictures, which, if 
we suppose it to be a beauty, is certainly of a 
lower order, wliich ought to give place to a 
beauty of a superior kind, since one cannot be 
obtained but by departing from the other. 

If my opinion was asked concerning the works 
of Michael Angelo, whether tliey would receive 
any advantage from possessing this mechanical 
merit, I should not scruple to say they would 
not only receive no advantage, but would lose, 
in a great measure, the elTeot whidi tliey now 
have on every mind susceptible of great and 
noble ideas. His works may be said to be all 
genius and soul ; and wliy should they be load- 
ed with heavy matter, which can only counter- 
act his purpose by retarding tlie progress of the 
imagination? 

If this opinion should be tliought one of the 
wild extravagancies of enthusiasm, I shall only 
say, that those who censure it are not conver- 
sant in the works of tlie groat masters. It is 
very difficult to determine the exact decree of 
enthusiasm that tiie arts of painting and poetry 
may admit. Tliere may pcriiaps be too great an 
indulgence, as well as too great a restraint of 
imagination ; and if the one produces incoherent 
monsters, the other produces what is full as bad, 
lifeless insipidity. An intimate knowledge of 
the passions, and good sense, but not common 
sense, must at last determine its limits. It has 
been thought, and I believe with reason, that 
Michael Angelo sometimes transgressed those 
limits ; and 1 think I have seen figures of him 
of which it was very difficult to determine whe- 
ther they were in the highest degree sublime or 
extremely ridiculous. Such faults may be said 
to be the ebullitions of genius ; but at least he had 
this merit, that he never was insipid, and what- 
ever passion his works may excite, they wiU 
always escape contempt. 

What I have had under consideration is the 
sublimest style, paiticularly that of Michael 



86 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 80. 



Angelo, the Homer of painting. Other kinds 
may admit of this naturalness, wliich of the 
lowest kind is the chief merit ; but in painting, 
as in poetry, the highest style has the least of 
common nature. 

One may very safely recommend a little more 
enthusiasm to the modern painters : too much is 
certainly not the vice of the present age. The 
Italians seem to have been continually declining 
in this respect from the time of Michael Angelo 
to that of Carlo Maratti, and from thence to 
the very bathos of insipidity to which they are 
now sunk ; so that there is no need of remark- 
ing, that where I mentioned the Italian painters 
in opposition to the Dutch, I mean not the mod- 
erns, but the heads of the old Roman and Bol- 
ognian schools ; nor did I mean to include in 
my idea of an Italian painter, the Venetian 
school, which may he said to be the Dutch part 
of the Italian genius. I have only to add a 
word of advice to the painters, that however 
excellent they may be in painting naturally, 
they would not flatter themselves very much 
upon, it ; and to the connoisseur's, that when 
they see a cat or fiddle painted so finely, that as 
the phrase is, " It looks as if you could take it 
up," they would not for that reason immediate- 
ly compare the painter to RaffaeUe and Michael 
Angelo. 



No. 80.] Saturday, Oct. 27, 1759. 



That every day has its pains and sorrows is 
universally experienced, and almost universally 
confessed ; but let us not attend only to mourn- 
ful truths ; if we look impartially about us, 
we shall find that every day has likewise its 
pleasures and its joys. 

The time is now come when the tovm is again 
beginning to be full, and the rusticated beauty 
sees an end of her banishment. Those whom 
the tyranny of fashion had condemned to pass 
the summer among shades and brooks, are now 
preparing to return to plays, balls, and assem- 
blies, with health restored by retirement, and 
spirits kindled by expectation. 

Many a mind, which has languished some 
months without emotion or desire, now feels a 
sudden renovation of its faculties. It was long 
ago observed by Pythagoras, that ability and 
necessity dwell near each other. She that 
•wandered in the garden without sense of its fra- 
grance, and lay day after day stretched upon a 
couch behind a green curtain, unwilling to wake 
and unable to sleep, now summons her thoughts 
to consider which of her last year's clothes shall 
be seen again, and to anticipate the raptures of 
a new suit ; the day and the night are now filled 
with occupation ; the laces, wliich were too fine 



to be worn among rustics, are taken from the 
boxes, and reviewed, and the eye is no sooner 
closed after its labours, than whole shops of silk 
busy the fancy. 

But happiness is nothing if it is not known, 
and very little if it is not envied. Before the day 
of departure a week is alwaya appropriated to 
the payment and reception of ceremonial visits, 
at which nothing can be mentioned but the de- 
lights of London. The lady who is hastening 
to the scene of action, flutters her wings, dis- 
plays her prospect of felicity, teUs how she 
grudges every moment of delay, and, in the pre- 
sence of those whom she knows condemned to 
stay at home, is sure to wonder by what ai'ts 
life can be made supportable through a winter 
in the country, and to tell how often, amidst 
the ecstacies of an opera, she shall pity those 
friends whom she has left behind. Her hope 
of giving pain is seldom disappointed : the af- 
fected indifference of one, the faint congratula- 
tions of another, the wishes of some openly con- 
fessed, and the silent dejection of the rest, all 
exalt her opinion of her own superiority. 

But, however we may labour for our own 
deception, truth, though unwelcome, will some- 
times intrude upon the mind. They who have 
already enjoyed the crowds and noise of the 
great city, know that their desire to retm-n is lit- 
tle more than the restlessness of a A^acant mind, 
that they are not so much led by hope as driven 
by disgust, and wish rather to leave the country 
than to see the town. There is commonly in 
every coach a passenger enwTapped in silent ex- 
pectation, whose joy is more sincei-e, and whose 
hopes are more exalted. The virgin w bom the 
last summer released from her governess, and 
who is now going between her mother and her 
aimt to try the fortune of her wit and beauty, 
suspects no fallacy in the gay representation. 
She believes herself passing into another world, 
and images London as an Elysian region, where 
every hour has its proper pleasxire, where no- 
thing is seen but the blaze of wealth, and no- 
thing heard but merriment and flattery ; where 
the morning always rises on a show, and the 
evening closes on a ball ; where the ej-ea 
are used only to sparkle, and the feet only to 
dance. 

Her aunt and her mother amuse themselves 
on the road, with telling her of dangers to be 
dreaded, and cautions to be observed. She hears 
them as they heard their predecessors, with in- 
credulity or contempt. She sees that they have 
ventured and escaped ; and one of the pleasures 
which she promises herself is, to detect their 
falsehoods, and be freed from their admoni- 
tions. 

We are inclined to believe those whom we do 
not know, because they have never deceived us. 
The fair adventurer may perhaps listen to the 
Idler, \\ horn she caraiot suspect of rivalry or 



No. 81.] 



THE IDLER. 



87 



malice; yet he scarcely experts to be credited 
when he tells her, that her expectations will 
likewise end in disappointment. 

The uniform necessities of human nature 
produce in a great measure uniformity of life, 
and for part of the day make one place like an- 
other ; to dress and undress, to eat and to sleep, 
are the same in London as in the country. The 
supernumei-ary hours have indeed a gi'eater 
variety both of pleasure and of pain. The 
stranger, gazed on by multitudes at her fii"st ap- 
pearance in the Park, is perhaps on the highest 
summit of female happiness : hut how great is 
the anguish when the novelty of another face 
draws her worshippers away ! The heart may 
leap for a time imder a fine gown ; but the 
sight of a gown yet finer puts an end to rapture. 
In the first row at an opera, two houi's may be 
happily passed in listening to the music on the 
stage, and watching the glances of the company ; 
but how will the night end in despondency when 
she that imagined herself the sovereign of the 
place, sees lords contending to lead Iris to her 
chair ! There is little pleasure in conversation 
to her whose wit is regarded but in the second 
place ; and who can dance with ease or spirit 
that sees Amaryllis led out before her? She 
that fancied nothing but a succession of pleas- 
ures, will find herself engaged without design 
in numberless competitions, and mortified with- 
out provocation with numberless afflictions. 

But I do not mean to extinguish that ardour 
which I wish to moderate, or to discourage 
those whom I am endeavouring to restrain. 
To know the world is necessary, since we are 
born for the help of one another ; and to knoiv 
it early is convenient, if it be only that we may 
learn early to despise it. She that brings to 
London a mind well prepared for improvement, 
though she misses her hope of uninterrupted 
happiness, will gain in return an opportunity of 
adding knowledge to vivacity, and enlarging in- 
nocence to virtue. 



No. 81.] Saturday, Nov. 3, 1759. 



As the English army was passing towards 
Quebec, along a soft savanna between a moun- 
tain and a lake, one of the petty chiefs of the 
inland regions stood upon a rock surrounded by 
his clan, and from behind the shelter of the 
bushes contemplated the art and regularity of . 
European war. It was evening, the tents were 
pitched : he observed the security with which 
the troops rested in the night, and the order j 
with which the march was renewed in the 
morning. He continued to pursue them with [ 
his eye till they could be seen no longer, and 
then stood for some time silent and pensive. I 



Then turning to his followers, " My child- 
ren," said he, " 1 have often heard from men 
hoary with long life, that there was a time 
when our ancestors were absolute lords of the 
woods, the meadows, and the lakes, wherever 
the eye can reach, or the foot can pass. They 
fished and hunted, feasted and danced, and, 
when they were weary lay down vmder the 
first thicket, without danger, and without fear. 
They changed their habitations as the seasons 
required, convenience prompted, or curiosity 
allured them ; and sometimes gathered the fruits 
of the mountain, and sometimes sported in ca- 
noes along the coast. 

" Many years and ages are supposed to have 
been thus passed in plenty and security ; when, 
at last, u new race of men entered our country 
from the great ocean. They inclosed themselves 
in habitations of stone, which our ancestors 
could neither enter by violence, nor destroy by 
fire. They issued from those fastnesses, some- 
times, covered like the armadillo with shells, 
from which the lance rebounded on the striker, 
and sometimes carried by mighty beasts which 
had never been seen in our vales or forests, of 
such strength and swiftness, that flight and ©i)- 
position were vain alike. Those invadera 
ranged over the continent, slaughtering in their 
rage those that resisted, and those that sub- 
mitted, in their mirth. Of those that remain- 
ed, some were buried in caverns, and condemned 
to dig metals for their masters ; some were em- 
ployed in tilling the ground, of which foreign 
tyrants devour the produce ; and, when the 
sword and the mines have destroyed the natives, 
they supply their place by human beings of an- 
other colour, brought from some distant country 
to perish here under toil and torture. 

" Some there are who boast their humanity, 
and content themselves to seize our chaces and 
fisheries, who drive us from every track of 
ground where fertility and pleasantness invite 
them to settle, and make no war upon us ex- 
cept when we intrude upon our own lands. 

" Others pretend to have purchased a right of 
residence and tyranny ; but surely the insolence 
of such bargains is more offensive than the 
avowed and open dominion offeree. "What re- 
ward can induce the possessor of a country to 
admit a stranger more powerful than himself? 
Fraud or terror must operate in such contracts; 
either they promised protection which they never 
have afforded, or instruction which they never 
impai-ted. We hoped to be secured by their 
favour from some other evil, or to learn the 
arts of Europe, by which we might be able to 
secure ourselves. Their power they never have 
exerted in our defence, and their arts they have 
studiously concealed from us. Their treaties 
are only to deceive, and their trafiic only to de- 
fraud us. They have a written law among 
them, of which they boast as derived from Hiin 



68 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 82. 



who made the earth and sea, and by wliuli they 
profess to believe that man will be made hai>])y 
when life shall forsake him. Why is not this 
law communicated to us ? It is concealed be- 
cause it is violated. For how can they pi'each 
it to an Indian nation, when I am told that one 
of its first precepts forbids them to do to others 
what they would not that others should do to 
them? 

" But the time perhaps is new approaching 
when the pride of usurpation shall be crushed, 
and the cruelties of invasion shall be revenged. 
The sons of rapacity have now drawn their 
swords upon each other, and referred their 
claims to the decision of war ; let us look uncon- 
cerned upon the slaughter, and remember that 
the death of every European delivers the coun- 
try from a tyrant and a robber ; for what is the 
claim of either nation, but the claim of the vul- 
ture to- the leveret, of the tiger to the fawn? Let 
them then continue to dispute their title to re- 
gions which they cannot people, to purchase by 
danger and blood the empty dignity of dominion 
over mountains which they will never climb, 
and rivers Avhich they will never pass. Let us 
endeavour in the mean time, to learn their dis- 
cipline, and to forge their weapons ; and, when 
they shall be weakened with mutual slaughter, 
let us rush down upon them, force their remains 
to take shelter in their ships, and reign once 
jnore in our native country." 



^o. 82.] SATuaDAY, Nov. 10, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



Discoursing in my last letter on the different 
practice of the Italian and Dutch painters, 1 ob- 
served, that " the Italian painter attends only 
to the invariable, the great and general ideas 
which ai"e fixed and inherent in universal na- 
ture." 

I was led into the subject of this letter by en- 
deavouring to fix the original cause of this con- 
duct of the Italian masters. If it can be. proved 
that by this choice they selected the most beauti- 
ful pai-t of the creation, it will show how much 
their principles are founded on reason, and, at 
the same time, discover the origin of oui- ideas 
of beauty. 

1 suppose it will be easily granted, that no 
man can judge whether any animal be beautiful 
in its kind, or deibrmed, who has seen only one 
of that species ; that is as conclusive in regard 
to the human figure ; so that if a man, born 
blind, was to recover his sight, and the most 
beautiful woman was brought before him, he 
could not determine whether she was handsome 



or not ; nor, if the most beautiful and most Re- 
formed were produced, could he any better de- 
termine to which he should give the preference, 
having seen only those two. To distinguish 
beauty, then, implies the having seen many in- 
dividuals of that species. If it is asked, how is 
more skill acquired by the observation of great- 
er numbers ? I answer, that, in consequence of 
having seen many, the power is acquired, even 
without seeking after it, of distinguishing be- 
tween accidental blemishes and excrescences 
which are continually varying the surface of 
Nature's works, and the invariable general form 
which nature most frequently produces, and al. 
ways seems to intend in her productions. 

Thus amongst the blades of grass or leaves of 
the same tree, though no two can be found ex- 
actly alike, yet the general form is invariable : 
a naturalist, before he chose one as a sample, 
Avould examine manj', since, if he took the first 
that occurred, it might haA^e, by accident, or 
othei-wise, such a form as that it would scarcely 
be known to belong to that species; he selects, 
as the painter does, the most beautiful, that is, 
the most general form of nature. 

Every species of the animal as well as the ve- 
getable creation may be said to have a fixed or 
determinate fjrm towards which nature is con- 
tinually inclining, like various lines terminating 
in the centre ; or it m^ay be compared to pendu- 
lums vibrating in different directions over one 
central point, and as they all cross the, centre, 
though only one passes through any other point, 
so it will be found that perfect beauty is oftener 
produced by nature than deformity ; I do not 
mean than deformity in general, but than any 
one kind of defor«iity. To instance in a parti- 
cular part of a feature : the line that forms the 
ridge of the nose is beautiful Avhen it is straight ; 
this then is the central form, which is oftener 
found than either concave, convex, or any other 
irregular form that shall be proposed. As we 
are then more accustomed to beauty than defor- 
mity, we may conclude that to be the reason 
why we approve and admire it, as we approve 
and admire customs, and fashions of dress for 
no other reason than that we are used to them, 
so that though habit and custom cannot be said 
to be the cause of beauty, it is certainly the cause 
of our liking it ; and I have no doubt but that, 
if we were more used to deformity than beauty, 
deformity would then lose the idea now annex- 
ed to it, and take that of beauty; as, if the 
whole Avorld should agree that yes and no 
should change their meanings, yes would then 
deny, and no would aflfinaa. 

Whoever undertakes to proceed farther in this 
argument, and endeavours to fix a general crite- 
rion of beauty respecting different species, or to 
show why one species is more beautiful than 
another, it will be required from him first to 
prove that one species is more beautiful than 



No. 83.] 



THE IDLER. 



89 



another. That we prefer one to the other, and 
with very good reason, will be readily granted ; 
but it does not follow from thence that we think 
it a more beautiful form ; for we have no cri- 
terion of form by which to determine our judg- 
ment. He who says a swan is more beautiful 
than a dove, means little more than that he has 
more pleasure in seeing a swan than a dove, 
either from the stateliness of its motions, or its 
being a more rare bird ; and he who gives the 
preference to the dove, does it from some associa- 
tion of ideas of innocence that he always annex- 
es to the dove ; but if he pretends to defend the 
preference he gives to one or the other by endea- 
vouring to prove that this more beautiful form 
proceeds from a particular gradation of magni- 
tude, undulation of a curve, or direction of a line, 
or whatever other conceit of his imagination he 
shall fix on as a criteiion of form, he will be 
continually contradicting himself, and find at 
last that the great mother of nature will not be 
subjected to such narrow rules. Among the 
various reasons why we prefer one part of her 
works to another, the most general, I believe, 
is habit and custom ; custom makes, in a certain 
sense, white black, and black white ! it is cus- 
tom alone determines our preference of the col- 
our of the Europeans to the ^Ethiopians ; and 
they, for the same reason, prefer their own col- 
our to ours. I suppose nobody will doubt, if 
one of their painters were to paint the goddess of 
beauty, but that he would represent her black, 
with thick lips, flat nose, and woolly hair ; and, 
it seems tome, he would act very unnaturally if 
he did not ; for by what criterion will any one 
dispute the propriety of his idea ? We, indeed, 
say, that the form and colour of the European 
is preferable to that of the ^Ethiopian ; but 1 
know of no reason we have for it, but that we 
are more accustomed to it. It is absurd to say 
that beauty is possessed of attractive powers, 
which irresistibly seize the corresponding mind 
with love and admiration, since that argument 
is equally conclusive in the favour of the white 
and the black philosopher. 

The black and white nations must, in respect 
of beauty, be considered as of dilFerent kinds, 
at least a different species of the same kind; 
from one of which to the other, as I observed, 
no inference can be drawn. 

Novelty is said to be one of the causes of 
beauty : that novelty is a very sufficient reason 
why we should admire, is not denied ; but because 
it is uncommon, is it therefore beautiful ? The 
beauty that is produced by colour, as when we 
prefer one bird to another, though of the same, 
form, on account of its colour, has nothing to do 
with this argument, which reaches only to form. 
I have here considered the word beauty as 
being properly applied to form alone. There is 
a necessity of fixing this confined sense ; for 
there can be no argument if the sense of the 



word is extended to every thing that is approved. 
A rose may as well be said to be beautiful be- 
cause it has a fine smell, as a bird because of its 
colour. When we apply the word beauty, we 
do not mean always by it a more beautiful form, 
but something valuable on account of its rarity, 
usefulness, colour, or any other property. A 
horse is said to be a beautiful animal ; but, had 
a horse as few good qualities as a tortoise, I do 
not imagine that he would be then esteemed 
beautiful. 

A fitness to the end proposed, is said to be 
another cause of beauty ; but supposing we were 
proper judges of what form is the most proper 
in an animal to constitute strength or swiftness, 
wo always determine concerning its beauty, 
before we exert our understanding to judge of 
its fitness. 

From what has been said, it may be infen'ed, 
that the works of nature, if we compare one 
species with another, are all equally beautiful ; 
and that preference is given from custom, or 
some association of ideas ; and that, in creatures 
of the same species, beauty is the medium or 
centre of all various forms. 

To conclude, then, by way of corollary ; if it 
has been proved, that the painter, by attending 
to the invariable and general ideas of nature, 
produces beauty, he must, by regarding minute 
particularities and accidental discriminations, 
deviate from the universal rule, and pollute hia 
canvass with deformity. 



k^X'WV^*/* 



No. 83.] Saturday, Nov. 17, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



I SUPPOSE you have forgotten that many weeks 
ago I promised to send you an account of my 
companions at the Wells. You would not deny 
me a place among the most faithful votaries of 
idleness, if you knew how often I have recol- 
lected my engagement, and contented myself to 
delay the performance for some reason which I 
durst not examine because I knew it to be false; 
how often I have sat down to write and rejoiced 
at interruption ; and how often I have praised 
the dignity of resolution, detennined at night 
to write in the morning, and deferred it in the 
morning to the quiet hours of night. 

I have at last begun what I have long wished 
at an end, and find it more easy than I expect- 
ed to continue my narration. 

Our assembly could boast no such constella- 
tion of intellects as Clarendon's band of associ- 
ates. We had among us no Selden, Falkland, 
or Waller ; but we had men not less important 
in their own eyes, though less dis^gubhed by 
the public ; and many a time have we lamented 

M 



90 



THE IDLER. 



'No. 84. 



the partiality of mankind, and agreed tliat men 
of the deepest inquiry sometimes let their dis- 
coveries die away iu silence, that the most com- 
prehensive observers have seldom opportunities 
of imparting their remarks, and that modest 
merit passes in the crowd unknown and un- j 
heeded. 

One of the greatest men of the society was , 
Sim Scruple, who lives in a continual equiijois;i 
of doubt, and is a constant enemy to confidenc-e ^ 
and dogmatism. Sim's favourite topic of con- 
versation is, the narrowness of the human , 
mind, the fallaciousness of our senses, the pi-e- I 
valence of early prejudice, and the uncertainty 
of appearances. Sim has many doubts about tlie ^ 
nature of death, and is sometimes inclined to 
believe that sensation may survive motion, and , 
that a dead man may feel though he cannot stir. ' 
He has sometimes hinted that man might per- j 
haps have been naturally a quadruped; and 
thinks it would be very proper, that at the ; 
Foundling Hospital some children should be | 
inclosed in an apartment in which the nurses 
should be obliged to walk half upon four and 
half upon two, that the younglings, being bred 
without the prejudice of example, might have 
no other guide than nature, and might at last 
come forth into the world as genius shoiJd 
direct, erect or prone, on two legs or on foiir. 

The next in dignity of mien and fluency of 
talk was Dick Wormwood, whose sole delight is, 
to find every thing wrong. Dick never enters 
a room but he shows that the door and the 
chimney are ill-placed. He never walks into 
the fields but he finds ground ploughed which 
is fitter for pasture. He is always an enemy 
to the present fashion. He holds that all the 
beauty and virtue of women will soon be de- 
stroyed by the use of tea. He triumphs when 
he talks on the present system of education, and 
tells us with great vehemence, that we are 
learning words when we should learn things. 
He is of opinion that we suck in eiTors at the 
nurse's breast, and thinks it extremely ridicu- 
lous that children should be taught to use the 
right hand rather than the left. 

Bob Sturdy considers it as a point of honour 
to say again what he has once said, and wonders 
how any man that has been known to alter his 
opinion, can look his neighbours in the face. 
Bob is the miost formidable disputant of the 
■whole company ; for, without troubling himself 
to search for reasons, he tires his antagonist 
with repeated afiirmations. When Bob has been 
attacked for an hour with all the powers of 
eloquence and reason, and his position appears 
to all but himself utterly untenable, he al- 
T^'ays closes the debate with his first declara- 
tion, introduced by a stout preface of con- 
temptuous civility. " AU this is very judi- 
cious ; you may talk, Sir, as you please ; but I 
will still say what I said at first." Bob deals 



much in universals, which he has now obliged 
us to let pass without exceptions. He lives on 
an annuity, and holds that " there are as many 
thieves as traders;" he is of loyalty unshaken, 
and always maintains, that " he who sees a 
Jacobite sees a rascal." 

Phil Gentle is an enemy to the rudeness of 
contradiction and the turbulence of debate. 
Phil has no notions of his own, and therefore 
willingly catches from the last speaker such as 
he shall di'op. This inflexibility of ignorance 
is easily accommodated to any tenet; his only 
difficulty is, when the disputants grow zealous, 
how to be of two contrary opinions at once. If 
no appeal is made to his judgment, he has the 
art of distributing his attention and his smiles 
in such a manner, that each thinks him of his 
own party; but if he is obliged to speak, Le 
then observes that the question is difficult; that 
he never received so much pleasure from a de- 
bate before ; that neither of the controvertists 
could have found his match in any other com- 
pany ; that Mr. Womawood's assertion is very 
well supported, and yet there is gi-eat force in 
Vt^hat Mr. Scruple advanced against it. By 
this indefinite declaration both are. commonly 
satisfied; for he that has prevailed is in good 
humour; and he that has felt his own weak- 
ness is very glad to have escaped so well. 

I am, Sir, yours, &c. 

Robin Spritely. 



No. 84,] Saturday, Nov. 24, 1759. 



BiOGRAriiY is, of the various kind of narrative 
writing, that which is most eagerly read, and 
most easily applied to the purposes of life. 

In romances, when the wide field of possibiL'ty 
lies open to invention, the incidents may easily 
be made more numerous, the vicissitudes more 
sudden, and the events more wonderful; but 
from the time of life when fancy begips to be 
over-ruled by reason and corrected by experi- 
ence, the most artful tale raises little curiosity 
'^i'heu it is known to be false ; though it may, 
perhaps, be sometimes read as a model of a neat 
or elegant style, not for the sake of knowing 
what it contains, but how it is written ; or 
those that are weary of themselves, may have 
recourse to it as a pleasing dream, of which, 
when they awake, they voluntarily dismiss the 
images from their minds. 

The examples and events of history, press, in- 
deed, upon the mind with the weight of truth ; 
but when they are reposited in the memory, 
they are oftener employed for show than use, 
and rather diversify conversation than regulate 
life. Few are engaged in such scenes as give 



No. 85.] 



THE IDLER. 



91 



them opportunities of groA"Ving wiser uy the 
dowafal of statesmen or the defeat of generals. 
The stratagems of war, and the intrigues of 
courts, are read by far the greater part of man- 
kind with the same indifference as the adven- 
tures of fabled heroes, or the revolutions of a fairy 
region. Between falsehood and useless truth 
there is little difference. As gold which he can- 
not spend will make no man rich, so know- 
ledge which he cannot apply will make no man 
wise. 

The mischievous consequences of vice and 
folly, of irregular desires and predominant pas- 
sions, are best discovered by those relations 
which are levelled with the general surface of 
life, which tell not how any man became great, 
but how he was made happy ; not how he lost 
the favour of his prince, but how he became dis- 
contented with himself. 

Those relations are therefore commonly of 
most value in which the writer tells his own 
story. He that recounts the life of another 
commonly dwells most upon conspicuous events, 
lessens the familiarity of his tale to increase its 
dignity, shows his favourite at a distance deco- 
rated and magnified like the ancient actors in | 
their tragic dress, and endeavours to hide the 
man that he may produce a hero. 

But if it be true, which was said by a French 
prince, " That no man was a hero to the ser- 
vants of his chamber," it is equally true that 
every man is yet less a hero to himself. He that 
is most elevated above the crowd by the impor- 
tanee of his employments, or the reputation of 
his genius, feels himself affected by fame or bu- 
siness but as they influence his domestic life. 
The high and low, as they have the same fa- 
culties and the same senses, have no less simili- 
tudes in their pains and pleasures. The sensa- 
tions are the same in all, though produced by 
verj' different occasions. The prince feels the ' 
same pain when an invader seizes a province, as ' 
the farmer when a thief drives away his cow. 
Men thus equal in themselves will appear equal 
in honest and impartial biography ; and those ' 
whom fortune or nature place at the gi'eatest 
distance, may affoi'd instruction to each other. 

The writer of his own life has at least the first 
qualification of an historian, the knowledge of 
the truth ; and though it may be plausibly ob- 
jected that his temptations to disguise it are 
equal to his opportunities of knowing it, yet I 
cannot but think that impartiality may be ex- 
pected with equal confidence from him that re- 
lates the passages of his own life, a^ from him 
that delivers the transactions of another. 

Certainty of knowledge not only excludes mis- 
take, but fortifies veracity. What we collect 
by conjecture, and by conjectui'e only can one 
man judge of another's motives or sentiments, 
is easily modified by fancy or by desire ; as ob- 
jects imperfectly discerned take forms from the 



hope or feur of the beholder. But that XA'hicfe 
is fully known cannot be falsified but with xa- 
luctance of understanding, and alarm of con- 
science : of understanding, the lover ot truth ; 
of conscience, the sentinel of virtue. 

He that writes the life of another is either his 
friend or his enemy, and wishes either to exalt 
his praise or aggi-avate his infamy : many temp- 
tations to falsehood will occur in the disguise of 
passions, too specious to fear much resistance. 
Love of virtue will animate paneg^'ric, and ha- 
tred of wickedness imbitter censure. The zeal of 
gratitude, the ardour of patriotism, fondness for 
an opinion, or fidelity to a party, may easily 
overpower the vigilance of a mind habitually 
well disposed, and prevail over xmassisted and 
unfriended veracity. 

But he that speaks of himself has no motive 
to falsehood or partiality except self-love, by 
which all have so often been betrayed, that all 
are on the watch against its artifices. He that 
writes an apology for a single action, to confute 
an accusation, to recommend himself to favour, 
is indeed always to be suspected of favouring his 
own cause ; but he that sits down calmly and vo- 
luntarily to review his life for the admonition of 
posterity, or to amuse himself, and leaves this 
account unpublished, may be commonly pre- 
sumed to teU truth, since falsehood cannot ap- 
pease his own mind, and fame will not be heard 
beneath the tomb. 






No. 85.] Saturday, Dec. 1, 1759. 



One of the peculiarities which distinguish the 
present age is the multiplication of books. Every 
day brings new advertisements of literary un- 
dertakings, and we are flattered with repeated 
promises of growing wise on easier terms than 
our progenitors. 

How much either happiness or knowledge is 
advanced, by this multitude of authors, it is not 
very easy to decide. 

He that teaches us any thing which we knew 
not before, is undoubtedly to be reverenced as a 
master. 

He that conveys knowledge by more pleasing 
ways, may very properly be loved as a benefac- 
tor ; and he that supplies life with innocent 
amusement, will be certainly caressed as a pleas- 
ing companion. 

But few of those who fill the world with 
books have any pretensions to the hope either of 
pleasing or instructing. They have often no 
other task than to lay two books before them, 
out of which they compile a third, without any 
new materials of their own, and with very little 
application of judgment to those which former 
authors have supplied. 



d2 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 86. 



That all compilations are useless I do not as- 
sert. Particles of science are often very widely 
Bcpttered. Writers of extensive comprehension 
have incidental remarks upon topics very re- 
mote from the principal subject, which are of- 
ten more valuable than formal treatises, and 
which yet are not known because they are not 
promised in the title. He that collects those 
under proper heads is very laudably employed, 
for though he exerts no great abilities in the 
work, he facilitates the progress of others, and 
hy making that easy of attainment which is al- 
ready written, may give some mind, more vigo- 
rous or more adventurous than his own, leisure 
for new thoughts and original designs. 

But the collections poured lately from the 
press have been seldom made at any great ex- 
pense of time or inquiry, and therefore only 
serve to distract choice without supplying any 
real want. 

It is observed that " a corrupt society has 
many laws:" I know not whether it is not 
equally true, that " an ignorant age has many 
books." When the treasures of ancient know- 
ledge lie unexamined, and original authors are 
neglected and forgotten, compilers and plagi- 
aries ai'e encouraged, who give us again what 
we had before, and grow great by setting before 
us what our own sloth had hidden from our 
view. 

Yet are not even these writers to be indiscri- 
minately censured and rejected. Truth like 
beauty varies its fashions, and is best recom- 
mended by different dresses to different minds ; 
and he that recalls the attention of mankind to 
any part of learning which time has left behind 
it, may be truly said to advance the literature of 
his own age. As the manners of nations vary, 
new topics of persuasion become necessary, and 
new combinations of imagery are produced ; and 
he that can accommodate himself to the reign- 
ing taste, may always have readers who per- 
haps would not have looked upon better per- 
formances. 

To exact of every man who writes, that he 
should say something new, would be to reduce 
authors to a small number ; to oblige the most 
fertile genius to say only what is new would be 
to contract his volumes to a few pages. Yet, 
surely, there ought to be some bounds to repe- 
tition ; libraries ought no more to be heaped 
for ever with the same thoughts differently ex- 
pressed, than with the same books differently 
decorated. 

The good or evil which these secondary writ- 
ers produce, is seldom of any long duration. As 
they owe their existence to change of fashion, 
they commonly disappear when a new fashion 
becomes prevalent. The authors that in any 
nation last from age to age are very few, because 
there are very few that have any other claim to 
notice than that they cai :h hold on present cui'i • 



osity, and gratify some accidental desire, or pro- 
duce some temporary conveniency. 

But however the writers of the day may des- 
pair of future fame, they ought at least to for- 
bear any present mischief. Though they can- 
not arrive at eminent heights of excellence, they 
might keep themselves harmless. They might 
take care to inform themselves before they at- 
tempt to inform others, and exert the little in- 
fluence which they have for honest purposes. 

But such is the present state of our literature, 
that the ancient sage, who thought " a great book 
a great evil," would now think the multitude of 
books a multitude of evils. He would consider 
a bulky writer who engrossed a year, and a 
swai-m of pamphleteers who stole each an hour, 
as equal wasters of human life, and would make 
no other difference between them, than between 
a beast of prey and a flight of locusts. 



No. 86.] Saturday, Dec. 8, 1759. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



I AM a young lady newly married to a young 
gentleman. Our fortune is large, our minds 
are vacant, our dispositions gay, our acquaint- 
ances numerous, and our relations splendid. We 
considered that marriage, like life, has its youth ; 
that the first year is the year of gayety and 
revel, and resolved to see the shows and feel the 
joys of London before the increase of our family 
should confine us to domestic cares and domes- 
tic pleasures. 

Little time was spent in preparation ; the 
coach was harnessed, and a few days brought 
us to London, and we alighted at a lodging 
provided for us by Miss Biddy Trifle, a maiden 
niece of my husband's father, where we found 
apartments on a second floor, which my cousin 
told us would serve us till we could please ovir- 
selves with a more commodious and elegant ha- 
bitation, and which she had taken at a very high 
price, because it was not worth the while to 
make a hard bargain for so short a time. 

Here I intended to lie concealed till my new 
clothes were made, and my new lodging hired ; 
but Miss Trifle had so industriously given no- 
tice of our arrival to all our acquaintance, that I 
had the mortification next day of seeing the door 
thronged with painted coaches and chairs with 
coronets, and was obliged to receive all my hus- 
band's relations on a second floor. 

Inconveniences are often balanced by some 
advantage : the elevation of my apartments fur- 
nished a subject for conversation, which, with- 
out some such help, we should have been in 



No. 87.] 



THE IDLER. 



93 



danger of wanting. Lady Stately told us how 
many years had passed since she climbed so many 
steps. Miss Airy --.an to the window, and 
thought it charming to see the walkers so little 
in the street ; and Miss Gentle went to try the 
same experiment, and screamed to find herself 
so far above the gi'ound. 

They all knew that we intended to remove, 
and, therefore, all gave me advice about a pro- 
per choice. One street was recommended for 
the purity of its air, another for its freedom 
from noise, another for its nearness to the park, 
another because there was but a step from it to 
all places of diversion, and another, because 
its inhabitants enjoyed at once the town and 
country. 

I had civility enough to hear every recom- 
mendation with a look of curiosity while it was 
made, and of acquiesence when it was conclud- 
ed, but in my heart felt no other desire than to 
be free from the disgrace of a second floor, and 
.lared little where 1 should fix if the apartments 
were spacious and splendid. 

Kext day a chariot was hired, and Miss Trifle 
was despatched to find a lodging. She returned 
in the afternoon, with an account of a charming 
place, to which my husband went in the morn- 
ing to make the contract. Being young and 
unexperienced, he took with him his friend Ned 
Quick, a gentleman of great skill in rooms and 
furniture, who sees, at a single glance, whatever 
there is to be commended or censured. Mr. 
Quick, at the first view of the house, declared 
that it could not be inhabited, for the sun in the 
afternoon shone with full glare on the windows 
of the dining room. 

Miss Trifle went out again and soon discov- 
ered another lodging, which Mr. Quick went 
to survey, and found, that, whenever the wind 
should blow from the east, all the smoke of the 
city would be driven upon it. 

A magnificent set of rooms was then found in 
one of the streets near Westminster- Bridge, 
which Miss Trifle preferred to any which she 
had yet seen ; but Mr. Quick having mused 
upon it for a time, concluded that it would be too 
much exposed in the morning to the fogs that 
rise from the river. 

Thus Mr. Quick proceeded to give us every 
day new testimonies of his taste and circumspec- 
tion ; sometimes the street was too narrow for 
a double range of coaches ; sometimes it was an 
obscure place, not inhabited by persons of qual- 
ity. Some places -were dirty, and some crowd- 
ed ; in some houses the furniture was ill-suited, 
and in others the stairs were too narrow. He 
had such fertility of objections that Miss Trifle 
was at last tired, and desisted from all attempts 
for our accommodation. 

In the meantime I have still continued to see 
my company on a second floor, and am asked 
twenty times a day when 1 am to leave those 



odious lodgings, in which I live tumultuously 
without pleasure, and expensively without hon- 
our. My husband thinks so highly of Mr. 
Quick, that he cannot be persuaded to remove 
without his approbation ; and Mr. Quick thinks 
his reputation raised by the multiplication of 
difficulties. 

In this distress to whom can I have recourse ? 
I find my temper vitiated by daily disappoint- 
ment, by the sight of pleasure which I cannot 
partake, and the possession of riche§ which I 
cannot enjoy. Dear Mr. Idler, inform my hus- 
band that he is trifling away, in superfluous vex- 
ation, the few months which custom has appro- 
priated to delight ; that matrimonial quarrels 
are not easily reconciled between those that have 
no children ; that wherever we settle he must al- 
ways find some inconvenience ; but nothing is so 
much to be avoided as a perpetual state of in- 
quiry and suspense. 

I am, Sir, 

Your humble Servant, 

Peggt Heaktless. 



No. 87.] Saturday, Dec. 15, 1759. 



Of what we know not, we can only judge by 
what we know. Every novelty appears more 
wonderful as it is more remote from any thing 
with which experience or testimony have hither- 
to acquainted us ; and if it passes farther beyond 
the notions that we have been accustomed tb 
form, it becomes at last incredible. 

We seldom consider that human knowledge 
is very narrow, that national manners are 
formed by chance, that uncommon conjunctures 
of causes produce rare eff^ects, or that what is 
impossible at one time or place may yet happen 
in another. It is always easier to deny than 
to inquire. To refuse credit confers for a mo- 
ment an appearance of superiority, which every 
little mind is tempted to assume when it may 
be gained so cheaply as by withdrawing atten- 
tion from evidence, and declining the fatigue of 
comparing probabilities. The most pertinacious 
and vehement demonstrator may be wearied in 
time by continual negation; and incredulity, 
which an old poet, in his address to Raleigh, 
calls "the wit of fools," obtunds the argument 
which it cannot answer, as woolsacks deaden 
arrows though they cannot repel them. 

Many relations of travellers have been slight- 
ed as fabulous, till more frequent voyages have 
confirmed their veracity ; and it may reasona- 
bly be imagined, that many ancient historians 
are unjustly suspected of falsehood, because our 
own times aff'ord nothing that resembles what 
they tell. 

Had only the writers of antiquity informed 
us that there was once a nation in which the 



94 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 88. 



wife lay down upon the burning pile, only to I 
mix her ashes with those of her husband, we j 
should have thought it a tale to be told with 
that of Endymion's commerce with the Moon. 
Had only a single traveller related that many 
nations of the earth were black, we should have 
thought the accounts of the Negroeii and of the 
Phoenix equally credible. But of black men 
the numbers are too gi'eat who are now repin- 
ing under English cruelty, and the custom of 
voluntary cremation is not yet lost among the 
ladies of India. 

Few narratives will either to men or women 
appear more incredible than the histories of the 
Amazons; of female nations of whose constitu- 
tion it was the essential and fundamental law, 
to exclude men from all participation either of 
public affairs or domestic business ; where fe- 
male armies mai'ched under female captains, fe- 
male farmers gathered the harvest, female part- 
ners danced together, and female wits diverted 
one another. 

Yet several sages of antiquity have transmitted 
accounts of the Amazons of Caucasus ; and of 
the Amazons of America, who have given their 
name to the greatest river in the world. Con- 
damine lately found such memorials, as can be 
expected among erratic and unlettered nations, 
where events are recorded only by tradition, 
and new swarms settling in the coimtry from 
time to time, confuse and efface all traces of 
former times. 

lo die with husbands, or to live without 
them, are the two extremes which the prudence 
and moderation of European ladies have, in all 
ages, equally declined ; they have never been 
allured to death by the kindness or civility of 
the politest nations, nor has the roughness and 
brutality of more savage countries ever pro- 
voked them to doom their male associates to ir- 
revocable banishment. The Bohemian matrons 
are said to have made one short struggle for 
superiority, but instead of banishing the men, 
they contented themselves with condemning 
them to servile oflBces; and their constitution 
thus left imperfect, was quickly overthrown. 

There is, I think, no class of English women 
from whom we are in any danger of Amazonian 
usurpation. The old maids seem nearest to in- 
dependence, and most likely to be animated by 
revenge against masculine authority ; they often 
speak of men with acrimonious vehemence, but 
it is seldom found that they have any settled 
hatred against them, and it is yet more rarely 
observed that they have any kindness for each 
other. They will not easily combine in any 
plot; and if they should ever agree to retire and 
fortify themselves in castles or in mountains, 
the sentinel will betray the passes in spite, and 
the garrison will capitulate upon easy terms, if 
the beseigers have handsome sword knots, and 
are well supplied with fringe and lace. 



The gamesters, if they were united, would 
make a formidable body; and since they con- 
sider men only as beings that are to lose theii 
monej', they might live together without any 
wish for the officiousness of gallantry, or the 
delights of diversified conversation. But as 
nothing would hold them together but the hope 
of plundering one another, their government 
would fail from the defect of its principles, the 
men would need only to neglect them, and they 
would perish in a few weeks by a civil war. 

I do not mean to censure the ladies of Eng- 
land as defective in knowledge or in spirit, 
when I suppose them unlikely to revive the 
militai'y honours of their sex. The character 
of the ancient Amazons was rather terrible than 
lovely ; the hand could not be very delicate that 
was only employed in drawing the bow and 
brandishing the battle-axe; their power was 
maintained by cruelty, their courage was de- 
formed by ferocity, and their example only 
shows that men and women live best together. 



No. 88.] Saturday, Dec 22, 1759, 



When the philosophers of the last age were first 
congregated into the Royal Society, great ex- 
pectations were raised of the sudden progress of ; 
iLSeful arts ; the time was supposed to be near, I 
when engines should turn by a pei-petual mo- ' 
tion, and health be secui-ed by the universal 
medicine ; when learning should be facilitated 
by a real character, and commerce extended by 
ships Avhich could reach their ports in defiance 
of the tempest. 

But improvement is naturally slow. The 
Society met and parted without any visible di- 
minution of the miseries of life. The gout and 
stone were still painful, the ground that was not i 
ploughed brought no harvest, and neither oranges f 
nor grapes would grow upon the hawthorn. At 
last, those who were disappointed began to be 
angry; those, likewise, who hated innovation 
were glad to gain an opportunity of ridiculing 
men who had depreciated, perhaps with too 
much arrogance, the knowledge of antiquity. 
And it appears from some of their earliest apo- 
logies, that the philosophers felt with great sen- 
sibility the unwelcome importunities of those, 
who were daily asking, " What have ye done?" 

The truth is, that little had been done com- 
pared with what fame had been suffered to pro- 
mise ; and the question could only be answered 
by general apologies and by new hopes, which, 
when they were frustrated, gave a new occasion 
to the same vexatious inquiry. 

This fatal question has disturbed the quiet of 
many other minds. He that in the latter part 



No. 890 



THE IDLER. 



95 



of his life too strictly inquires what he has done, i 
can very seldom receive from his own heart such 
an account as will give him satisfaction. 

We do not, indeed, so often disappoint others 
as ourselves. We not only think more highly 
than others of our own abilities, but allow our- 
selves to form hopes which we never communi- 
cate, and please our thoughts with employments 
which none ever will allot us, and with eleva- 
tions to which we are never expected to rise ; 
and when our days and years are passed away 
in common business or common amusements, 
and we find, at last, that we have suffered our 
pui'poses to sleep till the time of action is past, 
we are reproached only by our own reflections ; 
neither our friends nor our enemies wonder that 
we live and die like the rest of mankind ; that 
we live without notice, and die without memo- 
rial; they know not what task we had pro- 
posed, and, therefore, cannot discern whether it 
is finished. 

He that compares what he has done with 
what he has left undone, wiU feel the effect 
which must always follow the comparison of 
imagination with reality ; he will look with 
contempt on his own unimportance, and won- 
der to what purpose he came into the woi'ld ; 
he will repine that he shall leave behind liim no 
evidence of his having been, that he has added 
nothing to the system of life, but has glided 
from youth to age among the crowd, without 
any effort for distinction. 

Man is seldom willing to let fall the opinion 
of his own dignity, or to believe that he does 
little only because every individual is a very 
little being. He is better content to want dili- 
gence than power, and sooner confesses the de- 
pravity of his will than the imbecility of his 
nature. 

From this mistaken notion of human great- 
ness it proceeds, that many who pretend to have 
made great advances in wisdom so loudly de- 
clare that they despise themselves. If 1 had 
ever found any of the self-contemners much ir- 
ritated or pained by the consciousness of their 
meanness, I should have given them consolation 
by observing, that a little more than nothing is 
as much as can be expected from a being, who, 
with respect to the multitudes about him is 
himself little more than nothing. Every man 
is obliged by the Supreme Master of the uni- 
verse to improve all the opportunities of good 
which are afforded him, and to keep in continu- 
al activity such abilities as are bestowed upon 
him. But he has no reason to repine, though 
his abilities are small and his opportunities few. 
He that has improved the virtue, or advanced 
the happiness of one fellow-creature, he that has 
ascertained a single moral proposition, or added 
one useful experiment to natural knowledge, 
may be contented with his own performance, 
and, with respect to mortals like himself, may 



demand, like Augustus, to be dismissed at his 
departure with applause. 



No. 89.] Satu] 



Dec. 29, 17o9. 



'Anixev xce.) oiTixov. EI'ICT. 

How evil came into the world — for what rea- 
son it is that life is overspread Avith sucli bound- 
less varieties of misery — "why the only thinking 
being of this globe is doomed to think, mere- 
ly to be wretched, and to pass his time from 
youth to age in fearing or in suffering calamities, 
is a question which philosophers have long 
asked, and which philosophy could never an- 
swer. 

Religion informs us that misery and sin were 
produced together. The depravation of human 
will was followed by a disorder of the harmony 
of nature ; and by that Providence which often 
places antidotes in tlie neighbourhood of poisons, 
vice was checked by misery, lest it should swell 
to universal and unlimited dominion. 

A state of innocence and happiness is so re- 
mote fi'om all that we have ever seen, that 
though we can easily conceive it possible, and 
may, therefore, hope to attain it, yet our specu- 
lations upon it must be general and confused. 
We can discover that where there is univers;il 
innocence, there will probably be universal hap- 
piness ; for why should afHIctions be pennittcd 
to infest beings who are not in danger of cor- 
ruption from blessings, and where there is no 
use of terror nor cause of punishment ? But in 
a world like ours, where our senses assault us, 
and our hearts betray us, we should pass on from 
crime to crime, heedless and remorseless, if mi- 
sery did not stand in our way, and oui' own 
pains admonish us of our folly. 

Almost all the moral good which is loft among 
us, is the apparent eliect of physical evil. 

Goodness is divided by divines into soberness, 
righteousness, and godliness. Let it be examin- 
ed how each of these duties would be practised 
if there vwore no physical evil to enforce it. 

Sobriety, or temperance, is nothing but the 
forbearance of pleasure ; and if pleasure was not 
followed by pain, who would forbear it? We 
see every hour those in whom the desire of pre- 
sent indulgence overpowers all sense of past and 
all foresight of future misery. In a remission 
of the gout, the drunkard returns to his wine, 
and the glutton to his feast ; and if neither dis- 
ease nor poverty were felt or dreaded, every one 
would sink down in idle sensuality, without 
any care of others, or of himself. To eat and 
drink, and lie down to sleep, would be the whole 
business of mankind. 

Righteousness, or the system of social duty, 



96 



THE IDLER. 



No. 90. 



may be subdivided into justice and cbarity. Of 
ustice one of tbe heathen sages has shown, with 
great acuteness, that it was impressed upon 
mankind only by the inconveniencies which in- 
iistice had produced. " In the first ages," says 
he, " men acted without any rule but the im- 
pulse of desire; they practised injustice upon 
others, and suffered it from others in their 
turn ; but in time it was discovered, that the 
pain of suffering wrong was greater than the 
pleasure of doing it ; amd mankind, by a gene- 
ral compact, submitted to the restraint of 
laws, and resigned the pleasure to escape the 
pain." 

Of charity it is superfluous to observe, that it 
could have no place if thei'e were no want ; for 
of a virtue which could not be practised, the 
omission could not be culpable. Evil is not 
only the occasional but the efficient cause of cha- 
rity ; we are incited to the relief of misery by 
the consciousness that we have the same nature 
with the sufferer, that we are in danger of the 
same distresses, and may sometimes implore the 
same assistance. 

Godliness, or piety, is elevation of the mind 
towards the Supreme Being, and extension of 
the thoughts to another life. The other life is 
future, and the Supreme Being is invisible. 
None would have recourse to an invisible power, 
but that all other subjects had eluded their hopes. 
None would fix their attention upon the future, 
but that they are discontented with the present. 
If the senses were feasted with perpetual plea- 
sure, they would always keep the mind in sub- 
jection. Reason has no authority over us, but 
by its power to warn us against evil. 

In childhood, while our minds are yet unoc- 
cupied, religion is impressed upon them, and the 
first years of almost aU who have been well edu- 
cated are passed in a regular discharge of the du- 
ties of piety. But as we advance forward into 
the crowds of life, innumerable delights solicit 
our inclinations, and innumei*able cares distract 
our attention ; the time of youth is passed in 
noisy frolics ; manhood is led on from hope to 
hope, and from project to project ; the dissolute- 
ness of pleasure, the inebriation of success, the 
ardour of expectation, and the vehemence of 
competition, chain down the mind alike to the 
present scene, nor is it remembered hotv soon 
this mist of trifles must be scattered, and the 
bubbles that float upon the rivulet of life be lost 
for ever in the gulph of eternity. To this con- 
sideration scarcely any man is awakened but by 
some pressing and resistless evil. The death of 
those from whom he derived his pleasures, or to 
whom he destined his possessions ; some disease 
which shows him the vanity of aU external 
acquisitions, or the gloom of age, which inter- 
cepts his prospects of long enjoyment, forces 
him to fix his hopes upon another state, and 
when he has contended with the tempests of life 



till his strength fails him, he flies, at last, to the 
shelter of religion. 

Tiiat misery does not make all virtuous, expe- 
rience too clearly informs us ; but it is no less 
certain that of what virtue there is, misery pro- 
duces far the greater part. Physical evil may 
be, therefore, endured with patience, since it is 
the cause of moral good ; and patience itself is 
one virtue by which we are prepared for that 
state in which evil shall be no more. 



No. 90.] Saturday, Jan. 5, 1760. 



It is a complaint which has been made from 
time to time, and which seems to have lately 
become more frequent, that English oratory, 
however forcible in argument, or elegant in ex- 
pression, is deficient and inefficacious, because 
our speakers want the grace and energy of ac- 
tion. 

Among the numerous projectors who are de- 
sirous to refine our manners, and improve our 
faculties, some are willing to supply the defi- 
ciency of our speakers. We have had more than 
one extortion to study the neglected art of mov- 
ing the passions, and have been encouraged to 
believe that our tongues, however feeble in them- 
selves, may, by the help of our hands and legs, 
obtain an uncontrollable dominion over the most 
stubborn audience, animate the insensible, en- 
gage the careless, force tears from the obdui-ate, 
and money from the avaricious. 

If by slight of hand, or nimbleness of foot, all 
these wonders can be performed, he that shall 
neglect to attain the free use of his limbs may 
be justly censured as criminally lazy. But I am 
afraid that no specimen of such effects will easi- 
ly be shown. If I could once find a speaker in 
'Change Alley raising the price of stocks by the 
power of persuasive gestures, I should very zea- 
lously recommend the study of his art ; but 
having never seen any action by which language 
was much assisted, I have been hitherto inclined 
to doubt whether my countrymen are not blamed 
too hastily for their calm and motionless utter- 
ance. 

Foreigners of many nations accompany their 
speech with action : but why should their ex- 
ample have more influence upon us than ours 
upon them? Customs are not to be changed 
but for better. Let those who desire to re- 
form us show the benefits of the change pro- 
posed. When the Frenchman waves his hands, 
and writhes his body, in recounting the revolu- 
tions of a game at cards, or the Neapolitan, who 
tells the hour of the day, shows upon his fingers 
the number which he mentions, I do not per- 
ceive that their manual exercise is of much use, 
or that they leave any image more deeply im- 



No. 91.] 



THE IDLER. 



9T 



pressed by their bustle and veliemence of com- 
munication. 

Upon the English stage there is no want of 
action, but the difficulty of making it at once 
various and proper, and its perpetual tendency 
to become ridiculous, notwithstanding all the 
advantages which art and show, and custom and 
prejudice can give it, may prove how little it 
can be admitted into any other place, where it 
can have no recommendation but from truth 
and nature. 

The use of English oratory is only at the bar, 
in the parliament, and in the church. Neither 
the judges of our laws, nor the representatives 
of our people, would be much affected by la- 
boured gesticulation, or believe any man the 
more because he rolled his eyes, or puffed his 
cheeks, or spread abroad his arms, or stamped 
the ground, or thumped his breast, or turned his 
eyes sometimes to the ceiling, and sometimes to 
the floor. Upon men intent only upon truth, 
the arm of an orator has little power ; a credible 
testimony, or a cogent argument, will overcome 
all the art of modulation, and all the violence of 
contortion. 

It is well known that, in the city which may 
be called the parent of oratory, all the arts of 
mechanical persuasion were banished from the 
court of supreme judicature. The judges of the 
Areopagus considered action and vociferation as 
a foolish appeal to the external senses, and un- 
worthy to be practised before those who had no 
desire of idle amusement, and whose only plea- 
sure was to discover right. 

Whether action may not be yet of use in 
churches, where the preacher addresses a min- 
gled audience, may deserve inquiry. It is cer- 
tain that the senses are more powerful as the 
reason is weaker ; and that he whose ears con- 
vey little to his mind, may sometimes listen 
with his eyes till truth may gradually take pos- 
session of his heart. If there be any use of ges- 
ticulation, it must be applied to the ignorant and 
rude, who will b^ more affected by vehemence 
than delighted by propriety. In the pulpit lit- 
tle action can be proper, for action can illustrate 
nothing but that to which it may be referred by 
nature or by custom. He that imitates by his 
hand a motion which he describes, explains it 
by a natural similitude ; he that laj-^ his hand 
on his breast, when he expresses pity, enforces 
his words by a customary allusion. But the- 
ology has few topics to which action can be ap- 
propriated ; that action which is vague and in- 
determinate will at last settle into habit, and 
habitual peculiarities are quickly ridiculous. 

It is, perhaps, the character of the English, 
to despise trifles ; and that art may surely be 
accounted a trifle which is at once useless and 
ostentatious, which can seldom be practised with 
pi'opriety, and which, as the mind is more cul- 
tivated, is less powerful. Yet as all innocent 



means ai'e to be used for the propagation of 
truth, I would not deter those who are employ- 
ed in preaching to common congregations from, 
any practice which they may find persuasive ; 
for, compared with the conversion of sinners, 
propriety and elegance are less than nothing. 



No. 91.J Saturday, Jak. 12, 17G0. 



It is common to overlook what is near, by keep- 
ing the eye fixed upon something remote. In 
the same manner present opportunities are ne- 
glected, and attainable good is slighted, by minds 
busied in extensive ranges, and intent upon fu- 
ture advantages. Life, however short, is made 
still shorter by waste of time, and its progress 
towards happinesS) though naturally slow, is yet 
retarded by unnecessary labour. 

The difficulty of obtaining knowledge is uni- 
versally confessed. To fix deeply in the mind 
the principles ot' science, to settle their limita- 
tions, and deduce the long succession of their 
consequences ; to comprehend the whole com- 
pass of complicated systems, -with all the argu- 
ments, objections, and solutions, and to I'eposite 
in the intellectual treasury the numberless facts, 
experiments, apophthegms, and positions, which 
must stand single in the memory, and of which 
none has any perceptible connection with the 
rest, is a task which, though undertaken with 
ardour, and pursued with diligence, must at 
last be left unfinished by the frailty of oui* na- 
ture. 

To make the way to learning either less short 
or less smooth, is certainly absurd ; yet this is 
the apparent effect of the prejudice which seems 
to prevail among us in favour of foreign authors, 
and of the contempt of our native literature, 
which this excm'sive curiosity must necessarily 
produce. Every man is more speedily instructed 
by his own language, than by any other; before 
we search the rest of the world for teachers, let 
us try whether we may not spare our trouble 
by finding them at home. 

The riches of the English language are much 
greater than they are commonly supposed. 
Many useful and valuable books lie buried in 
shops and libraries, unknown and unexamined, 
unless some lucky compiler opens them by 
chance, and finds an easy spoil of wit and learn- 
ing. I am far from intending to insinuate that 
other languages are not necessary to him who 
aspires to eminence, and whose whole life is 
devoted to study; but to him who reads only 
for amusement, or whose purpose is not to 
deck himself with the honours of literature, but 
to be qualified for domestic usefulness, and sit 
down content with subordinate reputation, WQ 
O 



m 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 92. 



have authors snflioipnt to fill up all tlit- vacaiT-ii 9 
of his time, and gratify most of his wishes for 
information. 

Of our poets I need say little, because they 
are, perhaps, the only authors to whom their 
country has done justice. We consider the 
whole succession from Spenser to Pope, as su- 
perior to any names which the continent can 
boast ; and therefore the poets of other nations, 
however familiarly they may be sometimes men- 
tioned, are very little read, except by those who 
design to borrow their beauties. 

There is, I think, not one of the liberal arts 
which may not be competently learned in the 
English language. He that searches after ma- 
thematical knowledge may busy himself among 
his own counti'ymen, and will find one or other 
able to instruct him in every part of those ab- 
struse sciences. He that is delighted with 
experiments, and wishes to know the nature of 
bodies from certain and visible effects, is hap- 
pily placed where the mechanical philosophy 
was first established by a public institution, and 
from which it was spread to all other countries. 

The more airy and elegant studies of philolo- 
gy and criticism have little need of any foreign 
help. Though our language not being very an- 
alogical, gives few opportunities for grammati- 
cal researches, yet we have not wanted authors 
who have considered the principles of speech ; 
and with critical writings we abound sufficient- 
ly to enable pedantry to impose rules which 
can seldom be observed, and vanity to talk of 
books which are seldom read. 

But our own language has, from the Refor- 
mation to the present time, been chiefly dignified 
and adorned by the works of our divines, who, 
considered as commentators, controvertists, or 
preachers, have undoubtedly left all other na- 
tions far behind them. No vulgar language can 
boast such treasures of theological knowledge, 
or such multitudes of authors at once learned, 
elegant, and pious. Other countries, and other 
communions, have authors perhaps equal in 
abilities and diligence to ours ; but if we unite 
number with excellence, there is certainly no 
nation which must not allow us to be superior. 
' Of morality little is necessary to be said, be- 
cause it is comprehended in practical divinity, 
and is, perhaps, better taught in English ser- 
mons than in any other books ancient and 
modern. Nor shall 1 dwell on om* excellence 
in metaphysical speculations, because he that 
reads the works of our divines will easily dis- 
cover how far human subtil ty has been able to 
yenetrate. 

Political knowledge is forced upon us by the 
form of our constitution; and all the mysteries 
of government are discovered in the attack or 
defence of every minister. The original law of 
society, the rights of subjects, and the preroga- 
tives of kings, have been considered with the 



utmost lii ety, sometimes profoundly investi- 
gated, and sometimes familiarly explained. 

Thus copiously instructive is the English 
language ; and thus needless is all recourse to 
foreign writers. Let us not, therefore, make 
our neighbours proud by soliciting help whi( h 
we do not want, nor discourage our own indus- 
try by difficulties which we need not suffer. 



No. 92.] Saturday, Jan. 19, 17G0. 



Whatever is useful or honourable will be de- 
sired by many who never can obtain it ; and 
that which cannot be obtained when it is de- 
sired, artifice or folly will be diligent to coun- 
terfeit. Those to whom fortune has denied 
gold and diamonds, decorate themselves with 
stones and metals, which have something of 
the show, but little of the value ; and every 
moral excellence, or intellectual faculty, has 
some vice or folly which imitates its appear- 
ance. 

Every man wishes to be wise, and they who 
cannot be wise are almost always cunning. The 
less is the real discernment of those whom busi- 
ness or conversation brings together, the more 
illusions are practised, nor is caution ever so 
necessary as with associates or opponents of 
feeble minds. 

Cunning differs from wisdom as twilight 
from open day. He that walks in the sunshine 
goes boldly forward by the nearest way ; he 
sees that where the path is straight and even he 
may proceed insecurity, and where it is rough 
and crooked he easily complies with the turns, 
and avoids the obstructions. But the traveller 
in the dusk fears more as he sees less ; he knows 
there may be danger, and therefore susptcts 
that he is never safe, tries every step before he 
fixes his foot, and shrinks at every noise, lest 
violence should approach him. Wisdom com- 
prehends at once the end and the means, esti- 
mates easiness or difficulty, and is cautious or 
confident in due proportion. Cunning discovers 
little at a time, and has no other means of cer- 
tainty than multiplication of stratagems and 
superfluity of suspicion. The man of cunning 
always considers that he can never be too safe, 
and therefore always keeps himself enveloped in 
a mist, impenetrable, as he hopes, to the eye 
of rivalry or curiosity. 

Upon this principle Tom Double has formed 
a habit of eluding the most harmless question. 
What he has no inclination to answer, he pre • 
tends sometimes not to hear, and endeavours to 
divert the inquirer's attention by some other 
subject ; but if he be pressed hard by repeated 
interrogation, he always evades a direct reply. 
Ask him whom he likes best on the stage ; he is 



No. 93.] 



THE IDLER. 



99 



ready to tell that there are several excellent per- 
formers. Inquire when he was last at the 
cuifee-house ; he replies, that the weather has 
been bad lately. Desire him to tell the age of 
any of his acquaintance; he immediately men- 
tions another who is older or younger. 

Will Puzzle values himself upon a long reach. 
He foresees every thing before it will happen, 
though he never relates his prognostications till 
the event is past. Nothing has come to pass 
for these twenty years of which Mr. Puzzle had 
not given broad hints, and told atleast that it was 
not proper to tell. Of those predictions, which 
every conclusion will equally verify, he always 
claims the credit, and wonders that his friends 
did not understand them. He supposes very 
truly, that much may he known which he knows 
not, and therefore pretends to know much of 
which he and all mankind are equally ignorant. 
I desired his opinion, yesterday, of the German 
war, and was told, that if the Prussians were well 
supported, something great may he expected ; but 
that they have very powerful enemies to en- 
counter; that the Austrian general haslong ex- 
perience, and the Russians are hardy and reso- 
lute ; but that no human power is invincible. 
1 then drew the conversation to our own affairs, 
and invited him to balance the probabilities of 
war and peace. He told me that war requires 
courage, and negotiation judgment, and that the 
time will come when it will be seen whether our 
skill in treaty is equal to our bravery in battle. 
To this general prattle he will appeal hereafter, 
and will demand to have his foresight applaud- 
ed, whoever shall at last be conquered or vic- 
torious. 

With Ned Smuggle all is a secret. He be- 
lieves himself watched by observation and ma- 
lignity on every side, and rejoices in the dexter- 
ity by which he has escaped snares that never 
Avere laid. Nod holds that a man is never de- 
ceived if he never trusts, and thei'efore wiU not 
tell the name of his tailor or his hatter. He 
rides out every morning for the aii-, and pleases 
himself with thinking that nobody knows where 
he has been. When he dines with a friend, he 
never goes to his house the nearest way, but 
walks up a bye street to perplex the scent. 
^^'hen he has a coach called, he never tells him 
at the door the true place to which he is going, 
but stops him in the way, that he may give him 
directions where nobody can hear him. The 
price of what he buys or sells is always conceid- 
cd. He often takes lodgings in the country by 
a wrong name, and thinks that the world is 
wondering where he can be hid. All these 
nansactions he registers in a book, which, he 
says, will some time or other amaze posterity. 

It is remarked by Bacon, that many men try 
to procure reputation only by objections, of 
wliich, if they are once admitted, the nullity 
never appears, because tJie design is laid aside. 



" This false feint of wisdom," says he, "is the 
ruin of business." The whole power of cun- 
ning is privative ; to say nothing, and to do 
nothing, is tlie utmost of its reach. Yet men 
thus narrow by nature, and mean by art, are 
sometimes able to rise by the miscari'iages of 
bravery and the openness of integrity ; and by 
watching failures, and snatching opportunities 
obtain advantages which belong j>roperly to 
higher characters. 



No. 93.] Saturdat, Jan. 26, IToO. 



Sam Softly was bread a sugar baker ; but suc- 
ceeding to a considerable estate on the death of 
his elder brother, he retired early from business, 
married a fortune, and settled in a country-house 
near Kentish-town. Sam, who formerly was 
a sportsman, and in his apprenticeship used to 
frequent Barnet races, keeps a high chaise, with 
a brace of seasoned geldings. During the sum- 
mer months, the principal passion and employ- 
ment of Sam's life is to visit, in this vehicle, the 
most eminent seats of the nobility and gentry 
in different parts of the kingdom, with liis wife 
and some select friends. By these periodiciil ex- 
cursions Sam gratifies many important purposes. 
He sissists the several pregnancies of his wife ; 
he shows his chaise to the best advantage ; he 
indulges his insatiable curiosity for finery, 
which, since he has turned gentleman, has 
grown upon him to an extraordinary degree ; 
he discovers taste and spirit ; and, what is above 
all, he finds frequent opportunities of displaying 
to the party, at every house he sees, his know- 
ledge of family connections. At first Sam was 
contented with driving a friend between London 
and his villa. Here he prided himself in point- 
ing out the boxes of the citizens on each side of 
the road, with an accurate detail of their re- 
spective failures or successes in trade ; and ha- 
rangued on the several equipages that were acci- 
dentally passing. Here, too, the seats inter- 
spersed on the suiTounding hills, afforded ample 
matter for Sam's curious discoveries. For one, 
he told his companion, a rich Jew had offered 
money ; and that a retired widow was coui-ted 
at another, by an eminent dry-salter. At the 
same time he discussed the utility, and enume- 
rated the expenses, of the Islington turnpike. 
But Sam's ambition is at present raised to nobler 
undertakings. 

When the happy hour of the annual expedition, 
arrives, the seat of the chaise is furnished with 
" Ogilvy's Book of Roads," and a choice quan- 
tity of cold tongues. The most alarming dis- 
aster which can happen to our hero, who thinks 
he " throws a whip" admirably well, is to be 
overtaken in a road which affords no "quarter" 
lor wheels. Indeed, few men possess more &kili 



100 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 94. 



«r discernment for concerting and conducting a 
" party of pleasure." When a seat is to be sur- 
veyed, he has a peculiar talent in selecting some 
shady bench in the park, where the company 
may most commodiously refresh themselves 
•vvith cold tongue, chicken, and French rolls ; 
and is very sagacious in discovering what cool 
temple in the garden will be best adapted for 
drinking tea, brought for this purpose, in the 
afternoon, and from which the chaise may be 
resumed with the greatest convenience. In 
viewing the house itself, he is principally attrac- 
ted by the chairs and beds, concerning the cost 
of which his minute inquiries generally gain the 
clearest information. An agate table easily di- 
verts his eyes from the most capital strokes of 
Rubens, and a Turkey carpet has more charms 
than a Titian. Sam, however, dwells with some 
attention on the family portraits, particularly 
the most modern ones ; and as this is a topic on 
which the house-keeper usually harangues in a 
more copious manner, he takes this opportunity 
of improving his knowledge of intermaiTiages. 
Yet. notwithstanding this appearance of satis- 
faction, Sam has some objection to all he sees. 
One house has too much gilding; at another, 
the chimney-pieces are all monuments ; at a 
third, he conjectures that the beautiful canal 
must certainly be dried up w a hot summer. 
He despises the statues at W'ilton, because he 
thinks he can see much better carving at West- 
minster Abbey. But there is one general ob- 
jection which he is sure to make at almost every 
house, particulgirly at those which are most dis- 
tinguished. He allows that all the apartments 
are extremely fine, but adds, with a sneer, that 
they are too fine to be inhabited. 

Misapplied genius most commonly proves ri- 
diculous. Had Sam, as nature intended, con- 
tentedly continued in the calmer and less con- 
spicuous pui'suits of sugar- baking, he might have 
been a respectable and useful character. At 
present he dissipates his life in a specious idle- 
ness, which neither improves himself nor his 
fi'iends. Ihose talents which might have bene- 
fitted society, he exposes to conternpt by false 
pretensions. He affects pleasures which he 
cannot enjoy, and is acquainted only with those 
subjects on which he has no right to talk, and 
which it is no merit to understand. 



No. 9-i.] Saturday, Feb. 2, 1760. 



It is common to find young men ardent and di- 
ligent in the pursuit of knowledge ; but the pro- 
gress of life very often produces laxity and in- 
dirtcrence; and not only those who are at li- 
biTty to chiJAse their business and amusements, 



but those likewise whose professions engago 
them in literary inquiries, pass the latter part 
of their time without improvement, and spend 
the day rather in any other entertainment than 
that which they might find among their books. 

This abatement of the vigour of curiosity is 
sometimes imputed to the insufficiency of learn- 
ing. Men are supposed to remit their labours, 
because they find their labours to have been 
vain ; and to search no longer after truth and 
wisdom, because they at last despair of finding 
them. 

But this reason is for the most part very 
falsely assigned. Of learning, as of virtue, it 
may be affirmed, that it is at once honoured and 
neglected. Whoever forsakes it will for ever 
look after it with longing, lament the loss which 
he does not endeavour to repair, and desire the 
good which he wants resolution to seize and 
keep. The Idler never applauds his own idle- 
ness, nor does any man repent of the diligence of 
his youtli. 

So many hinderances may obstruct the acqui- 
sition of knowledge, that there is little reason fpr 
wondering that it is in a few hands. To the 
greater part of mankind the duties of life are in- 
consistent with much study ; and the hours 
which they would spend upon letters must be 
stolen from their occupations and their families. 
Many sufi'er themselves to be lured by more 
sprightly and luxurious pleasures fi'om the 
shades of contemplation, where they find sel- 
dom more than a calm delight, such as though 
greater than all others, its certainty and its du- 
ration being reckoned with its power of gratifi- 
cation, is yet easily quitted for some extempo- 
rary joy, which the present moment offers, and 
another, perhaps, will put out of reach. 

It is the great excellence of learning, that it 
borrow^s very little from time or place ; it is not 
confined to season or to climate, to cities, or to 
the country, but may be cultivated and enjoyed 
where no other pleasure can be obtained. But 
this quality, which constitutes much of its va- 
lue, is one occasion of neglect ; what may be 
done at all times with equal propriety is defer- 
red from day to day, till the mind is gradually 
reconciled to the omission, and the attention is 
turned to other objects. Thus habitual idleness 
gains too much power to be conquered, and the 
soul shrinks from the idea of intellectual labour 
and intenseness of meditation. 

That those who profess to advance learning 
sometimes obstruct it, cannot be denied ; the 
contiaiuil multiplication of books not only dis- 
tracts choice, but disappoints inquiry. To him 
that has moderately stored his mind with images^, 
few writers afford any novelty ; or what little 
they have to add to the common stock of learn- 
ing, is so buried in the mass of general notions, 
that like silver mingled with the ore of lead, it 
is too little to pay for the labour of separation; 



No. 95.] 



THE IDLER. 



101 



Rnd he that has often been deceived by the pro- 
mise of a title, at last grows weary of examin- 
ing, and is tempted to consider all as equally 
fallacious. 

There are, indeed, some repetitions always 
lawful, because they never deceive. He that 
writes the historj' of past times, undertakes only 
to decorate known facts by new beauties of me- 
thod or style, or at most to illustrate them by 
his own reflections. The author of a system, 
whether moral or phj-^sical, is obliged to nothing 
beyond care of selection and regularity of dispo- 
sition. But there are others who claim the 
name of authors merely to disgi-ace it, and fill 
the world with volumes only to bury letters in 
their own rubbish. The traveller who tells, in 
a pompous folio, that he saw the Pantheon at 
Rome, and the Medicean Venus at Florence ; 
the natui-al historian, who, describing the pro- 
ductions of a narrow island, recounts all that it 
has in common with every other part of the 
world ; the collector of antiquities, that accounts 
every thing a curiosity which the ruins of Her- 
culaneum happen to emit, though an instrument 
already shown in a thousand repositories, or a 
cup common to the ancients, the moderns, and 
all mankind, may be justly censured as the per- 
secutors of students, and the thieves of that 
time which never can be restored. 



No. 95.] Saturday, Feb. 9, 1760. 



TO THE IDLER. 

Mr. Idlkr, 
It is, I think, universally agreed, that seldom 
any good is gotten by complaint ; yet we find 
that few forbear to complain but those who are 
afraid of being reproached as the authors of their 
own miseries. I hope, therefore, for the com- 
mon pei*mission to lay my case before you and 
your readers, by which I shall disburden my 
heart, though I cannot hope to receive either as- 
sistance or consolation. 

I am a trader, and owe my fortune to frugal- 
ity and industry. I began with little ; but by 
the easy and obvious method of spending less 
than I gain, I have every year added something 
to my stock, and expect to have a seat in the 
common-council, at the next election. 

My wife, who Avas as prudent as myself, died 
six years ago, and left me one son and one 
daughter, for whose sake I resolved never to 
marry again, and rejected the overtures of Mi's. 
Squeeze, the broker's widow, w^ho had ten 
thousand pounds at her own disposal. 

I bi'ed my son at a school near Islington ; and 
when he had learned arithmetic, and wrote a 
good hand, I took him into tho shop, designing, 
iu about ten years, to retire to Stratford or 



Hackney, and leave him established in the busi 
ness. 

For four years he was diligent and sedate, en- 
tered the shop before it was opened, and when 
it was shut always examined the pins of tho 
window. In any intermission of business it 
was his constant practice to peruse the ledger. 
I had always great hopes of him, when I ob- 
served how sorroAvfuUy he would shake his 
head over a bad debt, and how eagerly he would 
listen to me -n'hen I told him that he might at 
one time or other become an alderman. 

We lived together with mutual confidence, till 
unluckily a visit was paid him by two of his 
school-fellows who were placed, I suppose, in 
the army, because they were fit for nothing bet- 
ter : they came glittering in their military dress, 
accosted their old acquaintance, and invited him 
to a tavern, where, as I have been since in- 
formed, they ridiculed the meanness of com- 
merce, and wondered how a youth of spirit 
could spend the prime of his life behind a 
counter. 

I did not suspect any mischief. I knew my 
son was never without money in his pocket, 
and was better able to pay his reckoning than 
bis companions ; and expected to see him re- 
turn triumphing in his own advantages, and 
congratulating himself that he Avas not one of 
those who expose their heads to a musket bullet 
for three shillings a day. 

He returned sullen and thoughtful ; I sup- 
posed him sorry for the hard fortune of his 
friends ; and tried to comfort him by saying that 
the war would soon be at an end, and that, if 
they had any honest occupation, half^pay would 
be a pretty help. He looked at me with indig- 
nation; and snatching up his candle, told me, 
as he went up stairs, that " he hoped to see a 
battle yet." 

Why he should hope to see a battle I could 
not conceive, but let him go quietly to sleep 
away his folly. Next day he made two mis- 
takes in the first bill, disobliged a customer by 
surly answers, and dated all liis entries in the 
journal in a wrong month. At night he met 
his military companions again, came home late, 
and quari-elled with the maid. 

From this fatal interview he has gradually lose 
all his laudable passions and desires. He soon 
grew useless in the shop, where, indeed, I did 
not willingly trust him any longer ; for he of- 
ten mistook the price of goods to his own loss, 
and once gave a promissory note instead of a re- 
ceipt. 

I did not know to what degree he was cor- 
rupted, till an honest tailor gave me notice that 
he had bespoke a laced suit, which was to be left 
for him at a house kept by the sister of one of 
my journeymen. I went to this clandestine 
lodging, and found, to my amazement, all the 
oi'naments of a fine gentleman, which he has 



102 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 96. 



taken upon credit, or purchased with money 
subducted from tlie shop, 

'I'his detection has made him desperate. lie 
now openly declares his resolution to be a gen- 
tleman ; says that his soul is too great for a 
counting-house ; ridicules the conversation of 
city taverns ; talks of new plays, and boxes, and 
ladies; gives dutchesses for his toasts; carries 
silver, for readiness, in his waistcoat pocket ; 
and comes home at night in a chair, with such 
thmiders at the door as have more than once 
brought the watchmen from their stands. 

Little expenses will not hurt us ; and I could 
forgive a few juvenile frolics, if he would be 
cai'eful of the main : but his favourite topic is 
contempt of money, which he says, is of no use 
but to be spent. Riches, without honour, he 
holds empty things ; and once told me to my 
face, that wealthy plodders were only purveyors 
to men of spirit. 

He is always impatient in the company of 
his old friends, and seldom speaks till he is 
warmed with wine ; he then entertains us with 
accounts that we do not desire to hear, of in- 
trigues among lords and ladies, and quarrels be- 
tween officers of the guards ; shows a miniature 
on his snuff-box, and wonders that any man 
can look upon the new dancer without rapture. 

All this is very provoking ; and yet all this 
might he box*ne, if the boy could support his 
pretensions. But, whatever he may think, he 
is yet far from the accomplishments which he 
has endeavoured to purchase at so dear a rate. 
I have watched him in public places. He 
sneaks in like a man that knows he is where he 
should not be ; he is proud to catch the slight- 
est salutation, and often claims it when it is not 
intended. Other men receive dignity from 
dress, but my booby looks always more meanly 
for his finery. Dear Mr. Idler, teU him what 
must at last become of a fop, whom pride will 
not suffer to be a trader, and whom long habits 
in a shop forbid to be a gentleman. 

I am, Sir, &c. 

Tim Wainscot. 



No. 96.1 Saturday, Feb. 16, 1760. 



Hacho, a king of Lapland, was in his youth 
the most i*enowned of the Northern warriors. 
His martial achievements remain engraved on a 
pillar of flint in the rocks of Hanga, and are to 
this day solemnly carolled to the harp by the 
Laplanders, at the fires with wliich they cele- 
brate their nightly festivities. Such was his in- 
trepid spirit, that he ventured to pass the lake 
Vether to the isle of Wizards, where he de- 
scended alone into the dreary vault in which a 



magician had been kept bound for six ogee, and 
read the Gothic characters inscribed on hia 
brazen mace. His eye was so piercing, that, as 

j ancient chronicles report, he oould blunt the 
weapons of his enemies only by looking at them. 
At twelve years of age he carried an iroii vessel 
of a prodigious weight, for the length of five 

[ furlongs, in the presence of all the chiefs of his 

' father's castle. 

I Nor was he less celebrated for his prudence 
and wisdom. Two of his proverbs are yet re- 

j membered . and repeated among Laplanders. 
To express the vigilance of the Supreme Being, 
he was wont to say, " Odin's belt is always 
buckled." To show that the most prosperous 
condition of life is often hazardous, his lesson 

I was, " When you slide on the smoothest ice, 
beware of pits beneath." He consoled his 
countrymen, when they were once preparing to 
leave the frozen desarts of Lapland, and re- 
solved to seek some warmer climate, by telling 
them, that the Eastern nations, notwithstand- 
ing their boasted fertility, passed every night 
amidst the horror;^ of anxious apprehension, 
and were inexpressibly affrighted, and almost 
stunned, every morning, with the noise of the 
sun while he was rising. 

His temi>erance and severity of manner were 
his chief praise. In his early years he never 
tasted wine ; nor would he drink out of a 
painted cup. He constantly slept in his armour, 
with his spear in his hand; nor would he 
use a battle-axe whose handle was inlaid with 
brass. He did not, however, persevere in this 
contempt of luxury ; nor did he close his days 
with honoui". 

One evening, after hunting the gulos, or wild 
dog, being bewildered in a solitary forest, and 
having passed the fatigues of the day without 
any intervsJ of refreshment, he discovered a 
large store of honey in the hollow of a pine. 
This was a dainty which he had never tasted 
before ; and being at once faint and hxingry, he 
fed greedily upon it. From this unusual and 
delicious repast he received so much satisfaction, 
that, at his return home, he commanded honey 
to be served up at his table every day. His pa- 
late, by degrees, became refined and vitiated; 
he legan to lose his native relish for simple 
fare, and contracted a hjfbit of indulging him- 
self in delicacies ; he ordered the delightful 
gardens of his castle to be thrown open, in 
v.'hich the most luscious fruits had been suffered 
to ripen and decay, unobserved and untouched, 
for many revolving autumns, and gi'atified his 
appetite with luxurious desserts. At length he 
found it expedient to introduce wine, as an 
agreeable improvement ; or a necessary ingredi- 
ent to his new way of living; and having once 
tasted it, he was tempted by little and little, to 
give a loose to the excesses of intoxication. His 
general simplicity of life was changed • he ucr- 



No. 97.] 



THE IDLER. 



103 



fuToed his apartments by burning the wood of 
the most aromatic fir, and commanded -his 
helmet to be ornamented with beautiful rows of 
the teeth of the rein-deer. Indolence and effem- 
inacy stole upon him by pleasing and impercep- 
tible gradations, relaxed the sinews of his reso- 
lution, and extinguished his thirst of military 
glory. 

While Hacho was thus immersed in pleasure 
and in repose, it was reported to him, one morn- 
ing, that the preceding night a disastrous omen 
had been discovered, and that bats and hideous 
birds had drank up the oil which nourished 
the perpetual lamp in the temple of Odin. 
About the same time, a messenger arrived to 
tell him, that the king of Norway had invaded 
his kingdom with a formidable army. Hacho, 
terrified as he was with the omen of the night, 
and enervated with indulgence, roused himself 
from his voluptuous lethargy, and recollecting 
some faint and few sparks of veteran valour, 
marched forward to meet him. Both armies 
joined battle in the forest where Hacho had 
been lost after hunting; and it so happened, 
that the king of Norway challenged him to 
single combat, near the place where he had tasted 
the honey. The Lapland chief, languid and long 
disused to arms, was soon overpowered ; he fell 
to the ground ; and before his insulting adver- 
sary struck his head from his body, uttered this 
exclamation, which the Laplanders still use as 
an early lesson to their children : " The vicious 
man should date his destruction from the first 
temptation. Hoav justly do I fall a sacrifice to 
sloth and luxury, in the place where I first 
yielded to those .allurements which seduced me 
to deviate from temperance and innocence ! the 
honey which I tasted in this forest, and not 
the hand of the king of Norway, conquers 
Hacho." 



No. 97.1 Saturday, Feb. 23, 17G0. 



It may, I think, be justly observed, that few 
books disappoint their readers more than the 
narrations of travellers. One part of man- 
kind is naturally curious to learn the sentiments, 
manners, and condition of the rest; and every 
mind that has leisure or poAver to extend its 
views, must be desirous of knowing in what 
proportion Providence has distributed the bless- 
ings of nature, or the advantages of art, among 
the several nations of the earth. 

This general desire easily procures readers to 
every book from which it can expect gratification. 
Tlie adventurer upon unknown coasts, and the 
fK'siriber of distant regions, is always welcomed 
as ii man who has laboured for the pleasure of 



able to enlarge our knowledge 



and rectify our opinions ; but when the volume 
is opened, nothing is found but such general 
accounts as leave no distinct idea behind them, 
or sueh minute enumerations as few can read 
with either profit or delight. 

Every writer of travels should consider, that, 
like all other authors, he undertakes either to 
instruct or please, or to mingle pleasure" with in- 
struction. He that instructs, must oflfer to the 
mind something to be imitated, or something to 
be avoided ; he that pleases must offer new im- 
ages to his reader, and enable him to form a tacit 
comparison of his own state with that of others. 

The greater part of travellers tell nothing, 
because their method of travelling supplies them 
with nothing to be told. He that enters a town 
at night and surveys it in the moi'ning, and then 
hastens away to another place, and guesses at 
the manners of the inhabitants by the enter- 
tainment which his inn afforded him, may please 
himself for a time with a hasty change of scenes, 
and a confused remembrance of palaces and 
churches ; he may gratify his eye with a variety 
of landscapes, and regale his palate with a suc- 
cession of vintages : but let him be contented to 
please himself without endeavouring to disturb 
others. Why should he record excursions by 
which nothing could be learned, or wish to 
make a show of knowledge, which, without 
some power of intuition unknown to other mor- 
tals, he never could attain? 

Of those who crowd the world with their 
itineraries, some have no other purpose than to 
describe the face of the country ; those who sit 
idle at home, and are curious to knoAv what is 
done or suffered in distant countries, may bo 
informed by one of these wanderers, that on a 
certain day he set out early with the caravan, 
and in the first hour's march saw, towards the 
south, a hill covered with trees, then passed 
over a stream, which ran northward with a 
swift course, but which is probably dry in the 
summer months; that an hour after he saw 
something to the right which looked at a dis- 
tance like a castle with towers, but whicli he 
discovered afterward to be a craggy rock; thut 
he then entered a valley, in which he saw 
several trees tall and flourishing, watered by a 
rivulet not marked in the maps, of which be 
was not able to learn the name ; that the road 
afterward grew stony, and the country uneven, 
where he observed among the hills many hollows 
worn by torrents, and was told that the road 
was passable only part of the year , that 
going on they found the remains of a building, 
once perhaps a fortress to secure the pass, or to 
restrain the robbers, of which the present inhab- 
itants can give no other account than that it is 
haimted by fairies ; that they went to dine at 
the foot of a rock, and travelled the rest of the 
day along the banks of a river, from which the 
road turned aside towards evening, and brcucht 



104 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 98. 



them within sight of a village, which was once 
a considerable town, but which atforded theui 
neither good victuals nor commodious lodging. 

Thus he conducts his reader through Avet and 
dry, over rough and smooth, without incidents, 
without reflection : and, if he obtains his com- 
pany for another day, will dismiss him again at 
night, equally fatigued with a like succession of 
rocks and streams, mountains and ruins. 

This is the common style of those sons of en- 
terprise, who visit savage countries, and range 
through solitude and desolation ; who pass a 
desert, and tell that it is sandy ; who cross a 
valley, and find that it is green. There are 
others of more delicate sensibility, that visit only 
the I'calms of elegance and softness ; that wander 
through Italian palaces, and amuse the gentle 
reader with catalogues of pictures; that hear 
masses in magnificent churches, and recount the 
number of the pillars or variegations of the 
pavement. And there are yet others, who, in 
disdain of trifles, copy inscriptions elegant and 
rude, ancient and modern ; and transcribe into 
their book the walls of every edifice, sacred or 
civil. He that reads these books must consider 
his labour as its own reward j for he will find 
nothing on which attention can fix, or which 
memory can retain. 

He that would travel for the entertainment of 
others-, should remember that the great object of 
remark is human life. Every nation has some- 
thing particular in its manufactures, its works 
of genius, its medicines, its agriculture, its cus- 
toms, and its policy. He only is a useful tra- 
veller, who brings home something by which 
his country may be benefitted ; who procures 
some supply of want, or some mitigation of evil, 
which may enable his readers to compare their 
condition with that of others, to improve it 
whenever it is worse, and whenever it is better 
to enjoy it. 



No. 98.] Saturday, March 1, 1760. 



TO THE IDLER. 



Sir, 



I AM the daughter of a gentleman, who during 
his life-time enjoj'ed a small income which arose 
from a pension from the court, by which he 
was enabled to live in a genteel and comfortable 
manner. 

By the situation of life in which he was 
placed, he was frequently introduced into the 
company of those of much greater fortunes than 
his own, among whom he Avas always received 
with complaisance, and treated with civility. 

At six years of age I was sent to a boarding- 



school in the country, at which I continued till 
my father's death. This melancholy event hap- 
pened at a time when I Avas by no n;eans of a 
sufficient age to manage for myself, nhile the 
passions of youth continued unsubdued, and be- 
fore experience could guide my sentiments q' 
my actions. 

I Avas then taken from school by an uncle, to 
the care of whom my father had committed me 
on his dying bed. With him I lived several 
years ; and as he was unmarried, the manage- 
ment of his family Avas committed to me. In 
this character I alAA-ays endeavoured to acquit 
myself, if not with applause, at least Avithout 
censure. 

At the age of twenty-one, a young gentleman ' 
of some fortune paid ijis addresses to me, and 
offered me terms of marriage. This proposal I 
should readily have accepted, because from vici- 
nity of residence, and from many opportunities 
of observing his behaviour, I had in some sort 
contracted an affection for him. My uncle, for 
what reason I do not knoAV, refused his consent 
to this^ alliance, though it would have been com- 
plied with by the father of the young gentle- 
man ; and, as the future condition of my life 
Avas whoUy dependant on him, I was not Avill- 
ing to disoblige him, and therefore, though un- 
willingly, declined the offer. 

My uncle, Avho possessed a plentiful fortune, 
frequently hinted to me in conversation, that at 
his death I should be provided for in such a 
a manner that I should be able to make my fu- 
ture life comfortable and happy. As this pro- 
mise was often repeated, I was the less anxious 
about any provision for myself. In a short time 
my uncle AVas taken ill, and though all possible 
means were made use of for his recovery, in a 
fcAv days he died. 

The sorrow arising from the loss of a relation, 
by whom I had been aUvays treated with the 
gi'eatest kindness, however grievous, was not the 
worst of my misfortunes. As he enjoyed an al- 
most uninterrupted state of health, he was the 
less mindful of his dissolution, and died intes- 
tate ; by which means his whole fortune de- 
A'olved to a nearer relation, the heir at law. 

Thus excluded from all hopes of living in the 
majner with Avhich I have so long flattered my- 
self, I am doubtful Avhat method I shaU take to 
procure a decent maintenance. I have been edu- 
cated in a manner that has set me above a state 
of servitude, and my situation renders me unfit 
for the company of those with whom I have 
hitherto conversed. But, though disappointed 
in my expectations, I do not despair. I will 
hope that assistance may still be obtained for in- 
nocent distress, and that friendship, though rare, 
is yet not impossible to be found. 
I am, Sir, 

Yom- humble servant, 

SoruiA Hbebfui. 



Nos. 99y 100.] 

No. 99.] Saturday, March 8, 1760. 



As OrtogTul of Basra was one day wandering 
along the streets of Bagdat, musing on" the va- 
rieties of merchandise which the shops offered 
to his view, and observing the different occupa- 
tions which busied the multitudes on every side, 
he was awakened from the tranquillity of medi- 
tation by a crowd that obstructed his passage. 
He raised his eyes, and saw the chief vizier, who 
having returned from the div£in, was entering 
his palace. 

Ortogrul mingled with the attendants, and 
being supposed to have some petition for the vi- 
zier, was permitted to enter. He surveyed the 
spaciousness of the apartments, admired the 
walls hung with golden tapestry, and the floors 
covered with sUken carpets, and despised the 
simple neatness of his own little habitation. 

Surely, said he to himself, this palace is the 
seat of happiness, where pleasure succeeds to 
pleasure, and discontent and sorrow can have 
no admission. ^Vhateve^ nature has provided 
for the delight of sense, is here spread^forth to 
be enjoyed. What can mortals hope or imagine, 
which the master of this palace has not obtained? 
The dishes of luxury cover his table, the voice of 
harmony lulls him in his bowers ; he breathes the 
fragrance of the groves of Java, and sleeps upon 
the down of the cygnets of Ganges. He speaks, 
and his mandate is obeyed ; he wishes, and his 
wish is gratified ; all whom he sees obey him, 
and all whom he hears flatter him. How dif- 
ferent, Ortogrul, is thy condition, who art 
doomed to the perpetual torments of unsatisfied 
desire, and who has no amusement in thy power 
that can withhold thee from thy own reflec- 
tions ! They tell thee that thou art wise ; but 
what does wisdom avail with poverty ? None 
will flatter the poor, and the wise have very lit- 
tle power of flattering themselves. That man 
is surely the most wretched of the sons of 
wretchedness, who lives with his own faults 
and foUies always before him, who has none to 
reconcile him to himself by praise and venera- 
tion. I have long sought content, and have not 
found it ; I will from this moment endeavoui* 
to be rich. 

Full of his new resolution, he shuts himself 
in his chamber for six months, to deliberate how 
he should grow rich : he sometimes proposed to 
offer himself as a counsellor to one of the kings 
of India, and sometimes resolved to dig for dia- 
monds in the mines of Golconda. One day, af- 
ter some hours passed in violent fluctuation of 
opinion, sleep insensibly seized him in his chair ; 
he dreamed that he was ranging a desert coun- 
try in search of some one that might teach him 
to grow rich ; and as he stood on the top of a 
hill shaded with cypress, in doubt whether to 



THE IDLER. 



105 



direct his steps, his father appeared on & sudden 
standing before him. Ortogrul, said the old man, 
I know thy perplexity ; listen to thy father ; 
turn thine eye on the opposite mountain. Or- 
togrul looked, and saw a torrent tumbling down 
the rocks, roaring with the noise of thunder, 
and scattering its foam on the impending woods. 
Now, said his father, behold the valley that lies 
between the hills. Ortogrul looked, and espied 

j a little weU out of which issued a small rivulet. 

I TeD me now, said his father, dost thou wish for 
sudden afiiuence, that may pour upon thee like 
the mountain torrent, or for a slow and gradual 
incresise, resembling the rill gliding from the 
well ? Let me be quickly rich, said Ortogrul ; 
let the golden stream be quick and violent. 
Look round thee, said his father, once again. 
Ortogrul looked, and perceived the channel of 
the torrent dry and dusty ; but following the 
rivulet from the well, he traced it to a wide 
lake, which the supply, slow and constant, kept 
always full. He waked, and determined to 
grow rich by silent profit and persevering in- 
dustry. 

Having sold his patrimony, he engaged in 
merchandise, and in twenty years purchased 
lands, on which he raised a house, equal in 
sumptuousness to that of the vizier, to which he 
invited aU the ministers of pleasure, expecting 
to enjoy all the felicity which he had imagined 
riches able to afford. Leisure soon made him 
weary of himself, and he longed to be persuaded 
that he was great and happy. He was courte- 
ous and liberal ; he gave all that approached him 
hopes of pleasing him, and all who should please 
him hopes of being rewarded. Every art of 
praise was tried, and every source of adulatory 
fiction was exhausted. Ortogrul heard his flat- 
terers without delight, because he found him- 
self unable to believe them. His own heart told 
him its frailties, his own understanding re- 
proached him with his faults. How long, said 
he, with a deep sigh, have I been labouring in 
vain to amass wealth which at last is useless I 
Let no man hereafter wish to be rich, who k 
already too wise to be flattered. 



No. 100.] Saturday, March 1.5, 1760. 



TO THE IDLER, 
Sir, 
The uncertainty and defects of language have 
produced very frequent complaints among the 
learned; yet there still remain many words 
among us undefined, which are very necessary 
to be rightly understood, and which produce 
very mischicA'ous mistakes when they ara 
erroneously interpreted. 
P 



10() 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 100. 



1 lived in a state of celibacy beyond the usual 
time. In the huriy first of pleasure, and after- 
wards of business, I felt no want of a domestic i 
tomj)anion ; but becoming weary of labour, I 
soon grew more weary of idleness, and thought 
it reasonable to follow the custom of life, and to 
seek some solace of my cares in female tender- 
ness, and some amusement of my leisure in 
female cheerfulness. | 

The choice which has been long delayed is 
commonly made at last with great caution. My 
resolution was, to keep my passions neutral, 
and to marry only in compliance with my 
reason. 1 drew upon a page of my pocket- ; 
book a scheme of all female virtues and vices, ; 
with the vices which border upon every virtue, ; 
and the virtues which are allied to eveiy vice. ' 
I considered that wit was sarcastic, and mag- 
nanimity Imperious ; that avarice was economi- 
cal, and ignorance obsequious ; and having 
estimated the good and evil of every quality, 
employed my own diligence, and that of my 
friends, to find the lady in whom nature and 
reason had reached that happy mediocrity which 
is equally remote from exuberance and defi- 
cience. 

Every woman had her admirers and her cen- 
siirers ; and the expectations which one raised 
were by another quickly depressed ; yet there 
was one in whose favour almost all suffrages 
concurred. Miss Gentle was universally 
allowed to be a good sort of woman. Her 
fortune v/as not large, but so prudently ma- 
naged, that she wore finer clothes, and saw more 
company, than many who were known to be 
twice as rich. Miss Gentle's visits were eveiy 
where welcome ; and whatever family she 
favoured with her company, she always left be- 
hind her such a degree of kindness as recom- 
mended her to others. Every day extended her 
acquaintance ; and all who knew her declared 
that they never met with a better sort of wo- 
man. 

To Miss Gentle I made my addresses, and 
"was received with great equality of temper. 
She did not in the days of courtship assume 
the privilege of imposing rigorous commands, 
or resenting slight offences. If I forgot any of 
her injimctions, I was gently reminded ; 
if I missed the minute of appointment, I was 
easily forgiven. I foresaw nothing in marriage 
tut a halcyon calm, and longed for the happi- 
ness which was to be found in the inseparable 
society of a good sort of woman. 

The jointure was soon settled by the interven- 
tion of friends, and the day came in which Miss 
Gentle was made mine for ever. The first 
month was passed easily enough in receiving 
and repaying the civilities of our friends. The 
bride practised with great exactness all the 
niceties of ceremony, and distributed her notice 
in the most punctilious proportions to the 



friends who surrounded us witli their happy 
auguries. 

But the time soon came when we were left to 
oui-selves, and were to receive our pleasures 
from each other, and I then began to perceive 
that I was not formed to be much delighted by 
a good sort of woman. Her great principle is, 
that the orders of a family must not be broken. 
Every hour of the day has its emplojTnent in- 
violably appropi-iated ; nor will any importun- 
ity persuade her to walk in the garden at the 
time which slie has devoted to her needlework, 
or to sit up stairs in that part of the forenoon 
which she has accustomed herself to spend in 
the back parlour. She allows herself to sit half 
an hour after breakfixst, and an hour after din- 
ner; while I am talking or reading to her, she 
keeps her eye upon her watch, and when the 
minute of departure comes, wiU leave an argu- 
ment unfinished, or the intrigue of a play un- 
ravelled. She once called me to supper when I 
was watching an eclipse, and summoned me at 
another time to bed when I was going to give 
directions at a fire. 

Her conversation is so habitually cautious, 
that she never talks to me but in general terms, 
as to one whom it is dangerous to trust. For 
discriminations of character she has no names : 
all whom she mentions are honest men and 
agreeable women. She smiles not by sensation, 
but by practice. Her laughter is never excited 
but by a joke, and her notion of a joke is not 
very delicate. The repetition of a good joke 
does not weaken its efifect ; if she has laughed 
once, she wiU laugh again. 

She is an enemy to nothing but ill-nature and 
pride; but she has frequent reason to lament 
that they are so frequent in the world. All 
who are not equally pleased with the good and the 
bad, with the elegant and gross, with the witty 
and the dull, all who distinguish excellence 
from defect, she considers as ill-natured; and 
she condemns as proud all who repress imperti- 
nence or quell presumption, or expect respect 
from any other eminence than that of fortune, 
to which she is always willing to pay homage. 

There are none whom she openly hates, for if 
once she suffers, or believes herself to suffer, any 
contr;mpt or insult, she never dismisses it from 
her mind, but takes all opportunities to tell how 
easily she can forgive. There are none whom 
she loves much better than others; for when 
any of her acquaintance decline in the opinion 
of the world, she always finds it inconvenient 
to visit them ; her affection continues unaltered, 
but it is impossible to be intimate with the 
whole town. 

She daily exercises her benevolence by pity- ' - 
ing every misfortune that happens to every I* 
family within her circle of notice; she is in 
hourly terrors lest one should catch cold in the 
rain, and another be fi-ighted by the high wind. 



No. 101.] 



THE IDLER. 



107 



Her charity she sho\A's by lamenting tliat so 
many poor wretches should languish in the 
streets, and by wondering what the great can 
think on that they do so little good with such 
large estates. 

Her house is elegant and her table dainty, 
though she has little taste of elegance, and is 
wholly free from vicious luxury; but she com- 
forts herself that nobody can say that her house 
is dirty, or that her dishes are not well dress- 
ed. 

This, Mr, Idler, I have found by long expe- 
rience to be the character of a good sort of wo- 
man, w^hich I have sent you for the information 
of those by whom a " good sort of a woman," 
and a " good woman," may happen to be used 
as equivalent terms, and who may suffer by the 
mistake, like 

Your humble servant, 

Ti>i Warner. 



No. 101.] Saturday, March 22, 1760. 



Omar, the son of Hassan, had passed seventy- 
five years in honour and prosperity. The fa- 
vour of three successive califs had filled his 
house with gold and silver ; and whenever he 
appeared, the benedictions of the people pro- 
claimed his passage. 

Terrestrial happiness is of short continuance. 
The brightness of the flame is wasting its fuel ; 
the fragrant flower is passing away in its own 
odours. The vigour of Omar began to fail, 
the curls of beauty fell from his head, strength 
departed from his hands, and agility from his 
feet. He gave back to the calif the keys of trust 
and the seals of secrecy ; and sought no other 
pleasure for the remains of life than the con- 
verse of the wise, and the gratitude of the 
good. 

The powers of his mind were yet unimpaired. 
His chamber was filled by visitants, eager to 
catch the dictates of experience, and officious to 
pay the tribute of admiration. Caled, the son 
of the viceroy of Egypt, entered every day early, 
and retired late. He was beautiful and elo- 
quent ; Omar admired his wit and loved his do- 
cility. Tell me, said Caled, thou to whose voice 
nations have listened, and whose wisdom is 
known to the extremities of Asia, tell me how 
I may resemble Omar the prudent. The arts 
by which you have gained power and preserved 
it, are to you no longer necessary or useful ; im- 
part to me the secret of your conduct, and teach 
me the plan upon which your wisdom has built 
your fortune. 



Young man, said Omar, it is of little use to 
fonn plans of life. When I took my first sur- 
vey of the world, in my twentieth year, having 
considered the various conditions of mankind, 
in the hour of solitude I said thus to myself, 
leaning against a cedar which spread its branch- 
es over my head : — Seventy years are allowed to 
man ; I have yet fifty remaining : ten years I 
will allot to the attainment of knowledge, and 
ten I will pass in foreign countries ; I shall be 
learned, and therefore shall be honoured ; every 
city will shout at my arrival, and every student 
will solicit my friendship. Twenty years thus 
passed "will store my mind with images w^hich 
I shall be busy through the rest of ray life in 
combining and comparing. I shall revel in in- 
exhaustible accumulations of intellectual riches; 
I shall find new pleasures for every moment, 
and sliall never more be weary of myself. I 
will, however, not deviate too far from the beat- 
en track of life, but will try what can be found 
in female delicacy. I will marry a wife beauti- 
ful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide ; with 
her I will live twenty years within the suburbs 
of Bagdat, in every pleasure that wealth can 
purchase, and fancy can invent. I will then re- 
tire to a rural dwelling, pass my last days in ob- 
scurity and contemplation, and lie silently down 
on the bed of death. Through my life it shall 
be my settled resolution, that I will never de- 
pend upon the smile of princes; that I will 
never stand exposed to the artifices of courts ; I 
will never pant for public honours, nor disturb 
my quiet with the affairs of state. Such was 
my scheme of life, which I impressed indelibly 
upon my memory. 

The first part of my ensuing time was to be 
spent in search of knowledge ; and I know not 
how I was diverted from my design. I had 
no visible impediments without, nor any un- 
governable passions within. I regarded know- 
ledge as the highest honour and the most engag- 
ing pleasure ; yet day stole upon day, and month 
glided after month, till I found that seven years 
of the first ten had vanished, and left nothing be- 
hind them. I now postponed my purpose of travel- 
ling ; for why should I go abroad while so much 
remained to be learned at home ? 1 immured 
myself for four years, and studied the laws of 
the empire. The fame of my skill reached the 
judges ; I was found able to speak upon doubt- 
ful questions, and was commanded to stand at 
the footstool of the calif. I was heard with at- 
tention, I was consulted with confidence, and 
the love of praise fastened on my heart. 

I still wished to see distant countries, listened 
with rapture to the relations of travellers, and 
resolved some time to ask my dismission, that I 
might feast my soul with novelty ; but my pre- 
sence was always necessary, and the stream of 
business hiuried me along. Sometimes I was 
afraid lest 1 should be chai'ged with ingratitude ; 



108 



THE IDLER. 



[No. 102. 



but I still proposed to travel, and therefore woiild 
not confine myself by marriage. 

In my fiftieth year I began to suspect that the 
time of travelling was past, and thought it best 
to lay hold on the felicity yet in my power, and 
indulge myself in domestic pleasures. But 
at fifty no man easily finds a woman beau- 
tiful as the Houries, and wise as Zobeide. I 
inquired and rejected, consulted and deliberated, 
till the sixty-second year made me ashamed of 
gazing upon girls. I had now nothing left but 
retirement, and for retirement I never found a 
time, till disease forced me from public employ- 
ment. 

Such was my scheme, and such has been its 
consequence. With an insatiable thirst for 
knowledge, I trifled away the years of improve- 
ment ; with a restless desire of seeing different 
countries, I have always resided in the same 
city ; with the highest expectation of connubial 
felicity, I have lived unmarried ; and with un- 
alterable resolutions of contemplative retire- 
ment, I am going to die within the walls of 
Bagdat. 



No. 102.] Saturday, March 29, 1760. 



It very seldom happens to man that his business 
is his pleasure. What is done from necessity is 
so often to be done when against the present in- 
clination, and so often fills the mind with anx- 
iety, that an habitual dislike steals upon us, and 
we shrink involuntarily from the remembrance 
of our task. This is the reason why almost 
every one wishes to quit his employment ; he 
does not like another state, but is disgusted with 
his own. 

From this unwillingness to perform more 
than is required of that which is commonly per- 
formed with reluctance, it proceeds that fe-w^ 
authors vpxite their own lives. Statesmen, cour- 
tiers, ladies, generals, and seamen, have given to 
the world their own stories, and the events with 
which their difi"erent stations have made them 
acquainted. They retired to the closet as to a 
place of quiet and amusement, and pleased them- 
selves with writing, because they could lay 
down the pen whenever they w^ere weary. But 
the author, however conspicuous, or however 
important, either in the public eye or in his own, 
leaves his life to be related by his successors, for 
iiC cannot gratify his vanity but by sacrificing 
his ease. 

It is commonly supposed, that the uniformity 
of a stuiions life affords no matter for narration : 
but the truth is, that of the most studious life a 
great pai-t passes without study. An author 



partakes of the common condition of humanity; 
he is born and married like another man ; he 
has hopes and fears, expectations and disappoint- 
ments, griefs and joys, and friends and enemies, 
like a courtier or a statesman ; nor can 1 con- 
ceive why his affairs should not excite curiosity 
as much as the whisper of a drawing-room, or 
the factions of a camp. 

Nothing detains the reader's attention more 
powerfully than deep involutions of distress, or 
sudden vicissitudes of fortune ; and these might 
be abundantly afforded by memoirs of the sons 
of literature. They are entangled by contracts 
which they know not how to fulfil, and obliged to 
write on subjects which they do not understand. 
Every publication is a new period of time, from 
which some increeuse or declension of fame is to 
be reckoned. The gradations of a hero's life 
are from battle to battle, and of an author's 
from book to book. * 

Success and miscarriage have the same effects 
in all conditions. The prosperous are feared, 
hated, and flattered ; and the unfortunate avoid- 
ed, pitied, and despised. No sooner is a book 
published than the writer may judge of the 
opinion of the world. If his acquaintance press 
round him in public places or salute him from 
the other side of the street ; if invitations to 
dinner come thick upon him, and those with 
whom he dines keep him to supper ; if the la- 
dies turn to him when his coat is plain, and the 
footmen serve him with attention and alacrity; 
he may be sure that his work has been praised 
by some leader of literary fashions. 

Of declining reputation the symptoms are not 
less easily observed. If the author enters a cof- 
fee-house, he has a box to himself; if he calls at 
a bookseller's, the boy turns his back; and, 
what is the most fatal of all prognostics, authors 
will visit him in a morning, and talk to him 
hour after hour of the malevolence of critics, the 
neglect of merit, the bad taste of the age, and 
the candour of posterity. 

AU this, modified and varied by accident and 
custom, would form very amusing scenes of bio- 
graphy, and might recreate many a mind which 
is very little delighted with conspiracies or bat- 
tles, intrigues of a court, or debates of a parlia- 
ment ; to this might be added all the changes of 
the countenance of a patron, traced from the 
first glow which flattery raises in his cheek, 
through ardour of fondness, vehemence of pro- 
mise, magnificence of praise, excuse of delay, 
and lamentation of inability, to the last chill 
look of final dismission, when the one grows 
weary of soliciting, and the other of hearing so- 
licitation. 

Thus copious are the materials which have 
been hitherto suffered to lie neglected, while 
tlie repositories of every family that has produc- 
ed a soldier or a minister are ransjacked, and 
libraries are crowded with useless folios of state 



No. 103.] 



THE IDLER. 



109 



papers which will never be read, and which con- 
tribute nothing to valuable knowledge. 

I hope the learned will be taught to know 
their own strength and their value, and, instead 
of devoting their lives to the honour of those 
who seldom thank them for their labours, re- 
solve at last to do justice to themselves. 



%^*>»%^^/»>%< 



No. 103.] Saturday, April 5, 1760. 



Respicere ad longa jussit spatia ultima vitce. 



Much of the pain and pleasure of mankind 
arises from the conjectures which every one 
makes of the thoughts of others ; we all enjoy 
praise which we do not hear, and resent con- 
tempt which we do not see. The Idler may 
therefore be forgiven, if he suffers his imagina- 
tion to represent to him what his readers wiU 
say or think when they are informed that they 
have now his last paper in their hands. 

Value is more frequently raised by scarcity than 
by use. That which lay neglected when it was 
common, rises in estimation as its quantity be- 
comes less. We seldom learn the true want of 
'what we have, till it is discovered that we can 
have no more. 

This essay will, perhaps, be read with care 
even by those who have not yet attended to any 
other ; and he that finds this late attention re- 
compensed, will not forbear to wish that he 
had bestowed it sooner. 

Though the Idler and his readers have con- 
tracted no close friendship, they are perhaps 
both unwilling to part. There are few things 
not purely evil, of which we can say, without 
some emotion of uneasiness, " this is the last." 
Those who never could agree together, shed 
tears when mutual discontent has determined 
them to final separation ; of a place which has 
been frequently visited, though without plea- 
sure, the last look is taken with heaviness of 
heart ; and the Idler, with all his chillness of 
tranquillity, is not wholly unaffected by the 
thought that his last essay is now before him. 

This secret hoi:ror of the last is inseparable 
from a thinking being, whose life is limited, and 
to whom death is dreadful. We always make 
a secret comparison between a part and the 
whole; the termination of any period of life re- 
minds us that life itself has likewise its termi- 
nation ; when we have done any thing for the 
last time, we involuntarily reflect that a part of 
the days allotted us is past, and that as more are 
past there are less remaining. 

Jt is very happily and kindly provided, that in 



every life there are certain pauses and interrup- 
tions, which force consideration upon the careless, 
and seriousness upon the light ; points of time 
where one course of action ends, and another 
begins ; and by vicissitudes of fortune, or alter- 
ation of employment, by change of place or loss 
of friendship, we are forced to say of something, 
"this is the last." 

An even and unvaried tenour of life always 
hides from our apprehension the approach of its 
end. Succession is not perceived but by varia- 
tion ; he that lives to day as he lived yesterday, 
and expects that as the present day is, such will 
be the morrow, easily conceives time as running 
in a circle and returning to itself. The uncer- 
tainty of our duration is impressed commonly 
by dissimilitude of condition ; it is only by 
finding life changeable that we are reminded of 
its shortness. 

This conviction, however forcible at every 
new impression, isj every moment fading from 
the mind ; and partly by the inevitable incur- 
sion of new images, and partly by voluntary ex- 
clusion of unwelcome thoughts, we are again 
exposed to the universal fallacy ; and we must 
do another thing for the last time, before we 
consider that the time is nigh when we shall do 
no more. 

As the last Idler is published in that solemn 
week which the Christian world has always 
set apart for the examination of the conscience, 
the review of life, the extinction of earthly 
desires, and the renovation of holy purposes; 
I hope that my readers are already disposed to 
view every incident Avith seriousness, and im- 
prove it by meditation ; and that when they 
see this series of trifles brought to a con- 
clusion, they will consider that, by outliving the 
Idler, they have passed weeks, months, and 
years, which arc now no longer in their power ; 
that an end must in time be put to every thing 
great, as to every thing little ; that to life must 
come its last hour, and to this system of being 
its last day, the hour at which probation ceases 
and repentance will be vain ; the day in which 
every work of the hand, and imagination of the 
heart, shall be brought to judgment, and an 
everlasting futurity shall be determined by the 
past. 



No. XXII.* 

Many naturalists are of opinion, that the ani- 
mals which we commonly consider as mute, 



* This was the original No. 22, but on the re- 
publicarioa of the work in volume*. Dr. Johnson sub- 
stituted what now stands under that head. 



no 



THE IDLER. 



[No. XXII. 



have the power of imparting their thoughts to 
oue anotlier. That they can express general 
sensations is very certain : every being that can 
utter sounds, has a different voice for pleasure 
and for pain. The hound infoi-ms his fellows 
when he scents his game; the hen calls her 
chickens to their food by her cluck, and drives 
them from danger by her scream. 

Birds have the greatest variety of notes ; they 
have indeed a variety, which seems almost suffi- 
cient to make a speech adequate to the pxirposes 
of a life which is regulated by instinct, and can 
admit little change or improvement. To the cries 
of birds cariosity or superstition has been al- 
ways attentive ; many have studied the lan- 
guage of the feathered tribes, and some have 
boasted that they understood it. 

The most skilful or most confident interpre- 
ters of the sylvan dialogues, have been common- 
ly found aHiong the philosophers of the east, in 
a country where the calmness of the air, and 
the mildness of the seasons, allow the student 
to pass a gi'eat part of the year in groves and 
bowers. But what may be done in one place 
by peculiar opportunities, may be performed in 
another by peculiar diligence. A shepherd of 
Bohemia has, by long abode in the forests, en- 
abled himself to understand the voice of birds ; 
at least he relates with great confidence a story, 
of which the credibility is left to be considered 
by the learned. ^ ♦ 

As I was sitting (said he) within a hollow 
rock, and watching my sheep that fed in the 
valley, I heard two vultures interchangeably 
crying on the summit of a cliff. Both voices 
were earnest and deliberate. My curiosity 
prevailed over the care of the flock ; I climbed 
slowly and silently from crag to crag, concealed 
among the shrubs, till I found a cavity where I 
might sit and listen without suffering, or giving 
disturbance. 

I soon perceived that my labour would be 
well repaid, for an old vulture was sitting on a 
naked prominence, with her young about her, 
whom she was instructing in the arts of a vul- 
ture's life, and preparing, by the last lecture, 
for their final dismission to the mountains and 
t'he skies. 

My children, said the old vulture, you will 
the less want my instructions, because you have 
had my practice before your eyes ; you have seen 
me snatch from the farm the household fowl, 
j-^ou have seen me seize the leveret in the bush, 
and the kid in the pasturage ; you know how 
to fix your talons, and how to balance your 
flight when you are laden with your prey. Bat 
you remember the taste of more delicious food. 
I have often regaled you with the flesh of man 
Tell us, said the young vultures, where man 
may be foimd, and how he may be known : 
his flesh is surely the natiual food of a vultuie. 



Why have you never brought a man in your ta- 
lons to the nest? He is too bulky, said tlie 
mother ; when we find a man we can only tear 
away his flesh, and leave his bones upon the ■ 
ground. Since man is so big, said the young 
ones, how do you kill him ? You are afraid of 
the wolf and of the bear, by what power are 
vultures superior to man? Is man more de- 
fenceless than a sheep? We have not the 
strength of man, returned the mother, and I 
am sometimes in doubt whether we have the 
subtilty ; and the vultures would seldom feast 
upon his flesh, had not nature, that devoted him 
to our uses, infused into him a strange ferocity, 
which I have never observed in any other being 
that feeds upon the earth. Two herds of men 
will often meet and shake the earth with noise, 
and fill the earth with fire. When you hear 
noise, and see fire, with flashes along the 
ground, hasten to the place with your swiftest 
wing, for men are surely destroying one 
another; you will then find the ground smok- 
ing with blood and covered with carcases, 
of which many are dismembered, and mangled 
for the convenience of the vulture. But 
when men have killed their prey, said the 
pupil, why do they not eat it? When the 
wolf has killed a sheep, he suffers not the 
vulture to touch it tiU he has satisfied himself. 
Is not man another kind of wolf ? Man, said 
the mother, is the only beast who kills that 
which he does not devour, and this quality 
makes him so much a benefactor to our species. 
If men kill our prey, and lay it in our way, 
said the yoimg one, what need shall we have of 
labouring for ourselves? Because man will 
sometimes, replied the mother, remain for a 
long time quiet in his den. The old vultures 
will tell you when you are to watch his mo- 
tions. When you see men in great numbers 
moving close together, like a flight of storks, you 
may conclude that they are hunting, and that 
you will soon revel in human blood. But still, 
said the j'oung one, I would gladly know the 
reason of this mutual slaughter. I could never 
kill what I could not eat. JMy child, said the 
mother, this is a question which I cannot an- 
swer, though I am reckoned the most subtile 
biru of the moimtain. When I was young, I 
used frequently to visit the ayry of an old vul- 
ture, who dwelt upon the Carpathian rocks ; 
he had made many observations ; he knew the 
places that afforded prey round his habitation, 
as far in every direction as the strongest wing 
can fly between the rising and setting of the 
summer sun ; he had fed year after year on the 
entrails of men. His opinion was, that men 
had only the appearance of animal life, being 
really vegetables, with a power of motion ; and 
that as the boughs of an oak are dashed together 
by the storm, that swine may fatten upon the 



No. XXII.] 



THE IDLER. 



Ill 



fallen acorns, so men are by some unaccountable 
power driven one a^rainst another, till they lose 
their motion, that vultures may be fed. Others 
think they have observed something of con- 
trivance and policy among these mischievous 
beings ; and those that hover more closely round 
them, pretend, that there is in every herd, one 



that gives directions to the rest, and seems to ba 
more eminently delighted with a wide cai'nage. 
What it is that entitles him to such pre-emi- 
nence we know not-, he is seldom the biggest or 
the swiftest, but he shows by his eagerness and 
diligence that he is, more than any of tha 
others, a friend to the vultures. 



THE END 



GLASGOW : 

AN1>HEW & JOHN RU DUNCaH 

'Vinteis to tlie University. 



LBAg'05 



% 



J^- 







€^-^ 



^^f!2KH^P^^I 



\ <^ 



^ 




^-7 



T v4 



■H ^ 




